
Class l-^KilQ-: 

Book. j1:L^ 

GoipghtiN" 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSre 



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81I0BR 'iliRBpsaRY 



OF 



* POETRY AND PROSE 



CHOICK SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF LEADING 

BRITISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS, 



FOR A PERIOD' OF FIVE HUNDRED -iTEARS : 



COVERING THE ENTIRE FIELD OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, 



>^ 







AND I'UESENTING A RICH AND VARIED COLLECTION 



LITERARY GEMS OF THE LANGUAGE. 



"W^ITIi OVER, IT'OXJIi HXTNIDKEr) A F" F R O P Pt I A. T K t*: N G- li A.^^ I M Clr S . 



EDITED BY 



FRANCIS F. IbROWNE. 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 



NEW YORK AND ST. LOUIS. 

N. D. THOrvIRSON & CO., PUBLISH 

18 8 3. 




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Eiitored aceoidius: to Act of Congress in the year 1883. I)y 
N. D. THOMPSON & CO.. 
Ill rlio offlce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. D. C. 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



'5)^s 



THIS book is chiefly popular in its scope. The Jiim of its compiler has been to bring 
together the largest possible number of familiar and favorite pieces in both prose 
and verso grouped in approi)riate departments according to the character of matter, 
rather than the less difficult and oftener performed task of ranging the standard English 
authors in stereotyped chronological succession in its pages. No little embarrassment 
has been found in the superabundance of material. To include everything that might be 
thought desirable in such a work has been quite impossible, and many things have 
been unavoidably excluded by their length alone. Also, the very large number of 
illustrations embraced- in the plan of the work rendered it necessary that a prominent 
consideration in the choice of matter should be fitness for illustration. Hence, a })ro- 
})ortionate or well balanced re{)rescntation of authors according to relative importance 
and rank has not been attempted or desired. Yet a reference to the List of Authors 
is only needed to show how -comprehensive is the range of the work, and how well it 
is calculated to add to its prime object, of affording popular entertainment, a further 
and important service to the student of English literature. 

The present plan of classification, according to the subjects of the various pieces, is 
one attended with considerable difficulty, and can never be absolutely perfect, as some 
pieces seem equally fitted for either of several departments. A certain harmony of 
contents has, however, been maintained, and the arrangement is no doubt one which 
adds materially to the effect of the book and to the reader's enjoyment of it. 

Many pieces in this collection, as in all collections, are extracts from longer works. 
The original sources from which such extracts are taken may easily be found by refer- 
ring to the titles under the List of Authors. Much care has been taken to o;ivc the 
poems correctly — a matter not always easy, since many well-known pieces exist in 
differing yet apparently authentic versions, material changes often being made by 
authors themselves in successive editions of their works. 

The hearty thanks of the publishers of this work are due to many American 
authors and their publishers, for the use of copyrighted matter. 

F. F. B. 



'yts^^)\s^ 



c<?' 



/nOJ^SID^J'H. what jou ?iave in the smallest chosen l/bra?y. 
Ky .4 companj' of the wisest a>id wittiest men that coittd be 
picA'ed out o/' all ciril countries, in a thousand years, hare 
set in best order t/ie results of their learning and wisdom. 
'The men themselves were hid and inaccessible, solitary, i/n- 
patie7it of inte7'?'/(ptions, feticed by etiquette: but the thouf/ht 
which the)' did not t/f/corer to their bosom friend, is here 
written out in t )-anspa rejif words to us, the strangers of 
another age. — Emerson. 



'i<s\®^;S)/'<i>3 




H 



(yw-y^y^ 




iZ .HrSty^%^ 



CONTENTS. 



INTKOUCCTION 



PAGB 

Richard Henry Stoddard xxiii 



PART I.— HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



PAGE 

The Cotter's Saturday Night . . Bohert Burns 33 

Make Home-Ufe Beautiful . B. G. Northrup 39 

By the Fireside .... Henri/ W. Longfellow 40 

Cradle Soug Josiah Gilbert Holland 40 

Duty and Influence of Mothers . Daniel Webster 41 

The Children's Hour . . Henry W. Longfellow 42 

Home Anonymous 42 

Songs of Seven ....... Jean Ligelow 43 

The Farmer's Home .... W. H. Youmans 47 

A Winter's Fireside Anonymous 47 

A Cheerful Home Anonyimms 48 

Willie Winkle William Miller 48 

Growing Aged Together . . . Bohert Collyer 49 

Like a Laverock in the Lift . . Jean Ingeloio 54 

The Old Oaken Bucket . . Samuel Woodworth 55 

The Wife ....... Washington L-ving 5G 

The Ingle-Side Hew Ainslie 58 

Only a Baby Small Matthias Barr 58 

Graves of a Household . . Felicia D. Hemans 59 

Home Courtesy Anonymous 60 

Are the Children at Home ? . M. E. M. Sangster 60 

Conversation Anonymous 61 

If I could Keep Her So . . Louise C. Moulton 62 

No Baby in the House . . . Clara G. Dolliver 62 

Mothers of Distinguished Men . Anonymotts 64 

Not One to Spare Ethel Lynn Beers 66 

Mothers and Sons Anonymous 67 

Childhood Home B . P. Shillaber ( Mr.^ . Partington) 68 

Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney 68 

Home Shadows Robert Collyer 69 

Bairnies, Cuddle Doon . . Alexander Anderson 70 

Old Folks at Home . . Stephen Collins Foster 70 

Home, Sweet Home . . . John Howard Pa;ine 70 

A Courteous Mother . Hi len Hunt Jackson (H. H.) 71 



PAGE 

My Old Kentucky Home . Stephen Collins Foster 73 

Be Kind • . . . . Anonymous 73 

Mothers, Spare Yourselves . . . Anonymous 73 

In a Strange Land . . . James Thomas Fields 74 

The Patter of Little Feet .... Anonymous 74 

My Mother's Bible . . . Bishop Gilbert Haven 75 

A Home Picture .... Frances Dana Gage 76 

A Story for a Child Bayard Taylor 76 

Choosing a Name Mary Lamb 77 

Baby George Macdonald 77 

True Hospitality Arthur Helps 77 

The Rule of Hospitality . . W. M. F. Bound 78 

The Sailor's Wife Jean Adam 79 

Catching Shadows E. Hannaford 80 

The Light of a Cheerful Face . . Anonymous 80 

Tired Mothers May Biley Smith 81 

Home Instruction Schuyler Colfax 82 

Home Adornments Anonymous 82 

The Farmer Sat in His Easy Chair C. G. Eastman 83 

Tribute to a Mother Thomas Babington Macaulay 83 

The Little Children . . Henry W. Longfellow 83 

•Joys of Home Sir John Bowring 84 

Words to Boj\s .... James Thomas Fields 85 

A Winter Evening at Home . William Cowper 85 

John Anderson, My Jo .... Bohert Burns 86 

Christmas Stockings . . Benjamin F. Taylor 86 

A Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts 87 

Good Breeding . . Philip, Earl of Chesterfield 87 

The Children's Bed-Time . Jane Ellis Hopkins 88 

Children Walter Savage Landor 88 

The INIahogany Tree . . William M. Thackeray 89 

Tell Your Wife Anonymous 89 

The Family Meeting .... Charles Sprague 90 

(iii) 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



Paet ii.-lote axd feiexdship. 



PAGE 

On the Doorstep . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 93 

The Departure Alfred Tennyson 94 

First Love Lord Byron 94 

No Time like the Old Time . . . Anonymous 95 

Mary Morison Bohert Burns 95 

lu Our Boat . . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 96 
Come Rest in This Bosom . . . Thomas Jli/ore 96 
My Wife's a Winsome AYee Thing . Bohert Burns 96 
Kissing Hei' Huij- . Algernon Charles Sicinburne 96 

Early Love Samuel Daniel 98 

Jlierry-Eipe Bichard Alison 98 

How Do I Love Thee Elizabeth Barrett Browning 98 

Winnifreda Anonymous 99 

Her Likeness . . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 99 
Ae Fond Kiss before 'We Part . . Bohert Burns 99 

Love Balph Waldo Emerson 100 

Love's Pliilosophy . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 304 

Good Bye Thomas Moore 104 

How Many Times . . Thomas Lovell Beddoes 105 

Absence Bohert Burns 105 

Coming through the Rye . . . Bobert Burns 105 
Comin' through the Rye . Adapted from Burns 105 
Hark! Hark! the Lark . . Wm. Shakespeare 105 

Fairest of the Rm-al Maids Wm. Cullen Bryant 106 
Rock Me to Sleep Eliz.A. Allen (Florence Percy) 106 
Pack Clouds Away .... Thomas Jleyu-ood 107 

Linger not Long Anonymous 107 

Song • • • Oerald Griffin lOS 

Love's Young Dream .... Thomas Moore 108 

Love is Enough Ella Wieeler 108 

If Thou Wert by My Side . . Beginald Heber 109 

Pain of Love Henry Constable 109 

Bonnie Mary Bobert Burns 110 

Sweet Hand Anonymous 110 

Anuie Laurie Douglas of Fingland 111 

True Love Harriet Martineau 111 

1 Ai'ise from Dream? of Thee . Percy B. Shelley 112 
My Luve's like a Red. Red Rose . Bobert Burns 112 

Separation Alfred Tennyson 112 

Three Kisses . . Elizabeth Barrett Broicning 113 

To an Absent Wife . . . George, D. Prentice 113 

The Flower o" Dumblane , . Bobert Tannahill 113 

Come into the Garden. Maud . Alfred Tennyson 114 

To Althea. from Prison . . Bichard Lovelace 114 

A Woman's Question . Adelaide Anne Proctor 116 

Doris Arthur J. Munby 116 

Sad are Tliey Who Know not Love T. B. Aldrich 117 

O Swallow. Flying South . . Alfred Tenmjson 117 

She was a Phantom of Delight Wm. Wordsivorth 117 

Margai-et Walter Savage Landor 117 

The Milking Maid . Christina Georgina Bossetti 118 

Under the Blue Francis F. Browne 119 

Kiss Me Softly Tohn Godfrey Saxe 119 

Pearls Bichard Henry Stoddard 120 

A Bird at Sunset . . . Bohert Buhcer Lytton 120 

Serenade Oscar Wilde 120 

The Purification of Love . . . David Swing 1 21 



A Song of Krishna Edwin Arnold 

Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcett 

I Fear Thy Kisses . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 
When the Kye Comes Ilame . . James Hogg 
The Patriot's Bride . Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 
Janette's Hair . . . Charles Graham Halpine 

AYooing John B. L. Soule 

Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 

The Jirookiide B.MoncktonMilnes(Lrjrd Houghton) 
The Old Story Elizabeth A.Allen (Florence Percy) 

Evening Song Sidney Lanier 

A Parting Michael Drayton 

A Mother's Love Samuel Bogers 

I do Confess Thou'rt Sweet . Sir Bobert Ayton 
The Passionate Shepherd . Christopher 3Inrlowe 
The Xymph's Reply . . . Sir Walter Baleigh 

Love is a Sickness Samuel Daniel 

Freedom in Dress Ben Jonson 

Phillis the Fair Yicholas Breton 

You and I W. H. Burleigh 

O, Saw Ye the Lass Bichard Byan 

We Parted in Silence .... Julia Crawford 
Come to Me. Dearest .... Joseph Brennan 

Absence William Shakespeare 

"Why so Pale and Wan . . Sir John Suckling 
Don't be Sorrowful. Dai'ling . Bembrandt Peale 

Julia Bobert Herrick 

The Bloom was on the Alder . . . Don Piatt 
The Gowau Glitters on the Sward Joanna Baillie 

She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron 

Aux Italiens Bohert Bulwer Lytton 

The Welcome Thomas Davis 

A Pastoral John Byrom 

Love at First Sight Jean Ligelow 

A Spinning-Wheel Song . John Francis Waller 

We Twain Amanda T. Jones 

My True-Love hath My Heart . Philip Sydney 

Go. Prettj' Birds Thomas Heywood 

The Poet's Bridal-Day Song Allan Cunningham 
AVife. Children, and Friends . W. B. Spencer 

The Shepherd's T^ove Ben Jonson 

To a Child Embracing His Mother Thos. Hood 

True Love William Shakespeare 

O. saw Ye Bonnie Lesley '? . . . Bobert Biirns 

Song John Gay 

A Girdle Edmund Waller 

Philip My King . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 

Afton Water Bohert Burns 

Green Grow the Rashes O! . . Bohert Burns 
A Celebration of Charis .... Ben Jonson 

I Love Aly Jean Bohert Burns 

The Lily-Pond . . . George Parsons Lathrop 

Cupid and Campaspe Fohn Lyly 

The Day Returns. My Bosom Burns . B. Bums 

Friendship Balph Waldo Emerson 

0. Lay Thy Hand in Mine. Dear . Gerald Massey 



122 



CONTENTS. 



paet III.— glimpses of nature. 



PAGE 

A Forest Hyiun . . . William CuUen Bryant 151 

The Nightingale S. H. Peabody 153 

Nature Jones Very 154 

The Nightingale . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 154 

Hynm on the Seasous . . . James Thomson 155 

Nio-ht Lord Byron 158 

The Cloud Percy Bysslie Shelley 159 

Morning Edward Everett 160 

'Y\\& Sea Lord Byron IGl 

The Nymph's Description of Her Fawn A. Marvel 162 

The Bobolink Washington L'ving 163 

The Eaiubow William Wordsworth 164 

The Shepherd John Dyer 165 

The World is Too Much with Us W. Wordsworth 166 

Breathings of Spring . Felicia Dorothea Hemans 166 

Varyinglmpressions from Nature Tr. Wordsioorth 167 

Evening William Wordsioorth 168 

Hymn before Sunrise . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 169 

To the Daisy William Wordsioorth 170 

Dawn Bichard Watson Gilder 171 

The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 171 

Before the Eain . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 173 

After the Rain . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 173 

Night Edward Young 173 

Summer .... John Townsend Troiobridge 174 

Day Breaking John Marston 175 

To the Nightingale .... Bichard Barnfield 177 

The Mount of the Holy Cross . . Anonymous 177 

The Heath-Cock Joanna Baitlie 178 

A June Day Hoioitt ]79 

The Sky-Lark James Hogg 180 

To the Turtle-Dove D. Conway 180 

The Rainbow James Thomson 181 

The Spring is Here . Nathaniel Parker Willis 182 

The First Violet .... Marie B. Williams 182 

To a Water-Fowl . . . William Cullen Bryant 184 

Violets Bobert Herrick 184 

The Wind-Flower Jones Very 185 

Christmas in the Woods . . . Harrison Weir 185 

The Eagle Anna Letitia Barbauld 186 

A Ram Reflected in the Water . W. Wordsworth 187 

The Squirrel-Hunt .... William Browne 188 

Summer Woods John Clare 189 

On a Goldfinch William Cotvj^er 190 

Changes in Nature Anonymous 190 

Morning Song Toanna Baillie 191 

The Squirrel Willietm Cowper 191 

The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 192 

The 'J'hrush"s Nest John Clare 192 

The Dying Stag Giles Fletcher 193 

Night Edward Everett 193 

To Seneca Lake .... James Gates Percival 194 

A Woodnote Howitt 195 

Lambs at Play Bobert Bloomfleld 196 

The Hare Wi'liam Somerrille 197 

To a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley 197 



PAGE 

To a Wild Deer John Wilson ( Christopher North) 199 

The Heath Charlotte Smith 200 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith 201 

The Sierras Joaquin Miller 202 

Snow-Flakes . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 202 

The Dog and the Water-Lily . William Cowper 203 

Planting the Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant 204 

The Daisy James Montgomery 205 

The Robin Harrison Weir 207 

Spring and Winter . . . William Shakespeare 209 

March ...... William Cullen Bryant 209 

Autumn 3Iiss Cooper 210 

The Four-Leaved Shamrock . . Samuel Lover 212 

To a Young Ass . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 213 

The First Day of Spring . . William G. Simms 214 

Day is Dying . Mrs. Lewes Cross (George Eliot) 215 

Song of the Brook .... Alfred Tennyson 215 

Hail, Holy Light John Milton 216 

Spring Thomas Gray 217 

A Winter Morning .... William Cowper 218 

Wintry Weather David Gray 219 

May-Day . . . John Wolcott (Peter Pindar) 220 

The Early Piimrose . . . Henry Kirke White 220 

Loves of the Plants .... Erasmus Darwin 221 

The Angler Anonymous 221 

To a Nightingale .... William Drummond 221 

The Tiger William Blake 222 

The Eagle ....... Alfred Tennyson 223 

A Summer Morn James Beattie 224 

Sunset at Norhani Castle . . Sir Walter Scott 225 

To the Dandelion . . . James Russell Lowell 226 

Hymn to the Flowers .... Horace Smith 226 

Solace in Nature . . . William Wordsworth 227 

June James Russell Lowell 228 

To a Mountain Daisy . . . . Bobert Burns 229' 

The Wonders of Astronomy . Edward Everett 230 

The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton 232 

The Broom Mary Howitt 233 

Ode to Leven Water . Tobias George Smollet 233 

The Birds John Lyly 234 

A Spring Daj^ Robert Bloomfleld 235 

The Little Beach-Bird . Richard Henry Dana 235 

The Aged Oak at Oakley . . . Henry Alford 236 

The Pheasant Anonymous 237 

The Thrush f^:"^." . Anonymous 237 

Snow Ralph Hoyt 237 

The O'Lincoln Family .... Wilson Flagg 238 

Solitude of the Sea Lord Byron 238 

Summer Drought J. P. Irvine 239 

The Rhine Lord Byron 240 

To a Mountain Oak . . . George Henry Boker 241 

Forest Pictures .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 242 

Flowers John 3Iilton 243 

Under the Leaves Albert Laighton 245 

Winter William Cowper 245 

The Flower's Name .... Robert Browning 246 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Spring iu Carolina Henry Timrocl 24G 

The Lark William Shakespeare 247 

Grizzly Bret Harte 247 

The Violet William Wetmore Story 248 

Calm and Storm on Lake Leman . Lord Byron 248 

Freedom of Nature .... James Thomsuii 248 

Three Summer Studies . . James Barron Hope 249 

Imaginative Sympathy with Nature Lord Byron 251 

September George Arnold 252 

Flowers Thomas Hood 253 

Stars Lord Byron 253 

Signs of Rain Dr. Edward Jenner 254 

Daffodils William Wordsworth 255 

Sonnet on the River Rhine . Wm. Lisle Boviles 256 

To the Cuckoo John Logan 257 

March William Harris 257 

The Shaded Water . William Gilmore Simms 258 

November Hartley Coleridge 259 



PAGE 

The Sea in Calm and Storm . . George Crabbe 200 

Midges Dance Aboou the Burn . li. Tannahill 202 

Nature's Delights John Keats 262 

Harvest Time .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 262 

The Evening "Wind . . William Cullen Bryant 203 

Nature's Maguiticeuce . . James Montgomery 204 

Spring Alfred Tennyson 265 

It Snows Mrs. S. J. Hale 266 

Sunrise at Sea Epes Sargent 207 

The Rainbow Thomas Campbell 268 

The Song Sparrow . . George Parsons Lathrop 268 

Invocation to Nature . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 209 

Table Mountain, Good Hope James Montgomery 209 

May to April Philip Freneau 270 

Scenery of the Mississippi . H. W. Longfellow 270 

April! April! Are you Here? Dora B. Goodale 271 

The Poet's Solitude Lord Byron 272 



^-3S'^ 



Part IV.— COUNTRY LIFE. 



PAGE 

A Country Life Bobert Herrick 275 

A Wish Samuel liogers 277 

Town and Country .... William Cowper 278 

The Homestead Phoebe Cary 278 

Sunday in the Fields .... Ebenezer Elliot 280 

Blossom-Time 3Iary E. Dodge 281 

The Praise of a Solitary Life . Wm. Drummond 282 

The Old Mill .... Richard Henry Stoddard 282 

Farming Edward Everett 283 

Two Pictures ...... Marian Douglass 284 

The Ploughman . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 284 

The Useful Plough Anonymous 285 

Country Life Anonymous 287 

The City and the Country . . . Anonymous 287 

The Haymakers George Lunt 287 

The Song of the Mowers . . W. H. Burleigh 288 

The Cornfield James Thomson 289 

The Mo\\'ers William AlUngham 290 

When the Cows Come Home . Mary E. Nealey 291 

Come to the Sunset Tree . Felicia D. Hemans 292 

My Little Brook .... 3fary Bolles Branch 293 



PAGE 

A Harvest Hymn W. D. Gallagher 294 

The Old House . . . Louise Chandler Moulton 294 

Rural Nature William Barnes 295 

The Farmer's Boy .... Robert Bloomfield 296 

Farmyard Song . . John Townsend Trowbridge 297 

Harvest Song Eliza Cook 298 

The Farmer's Wife . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 298 

The Pmni^kin .... John Greenleaf Wiittier 299 

Robert of Lincoln . . William Cullen Bryant 300 

On the Banks of the Tennessee W. D. Gallagher 301 

Summer Longings . Denis Florence MacCarthy 302 

Farm Life Anonymous 302 

Summer Woods . . . William Henry Burleigh 303 

The Village Boy Cla>-ke 304 

The Barefoot Boy . . John Greenleaf Wliittier 304 

The Country Life . . Richard Henry Stoddard 306 

Happy the Man "V^liose Wish and Care Alex. Pope 307 

Contentment with Nature . . . James Beattie 307 

Nightfall : a Picture .... Alfred B. Street 309 

The House on the Hill . . . Eugene J. Hall 310 



'^jG ^E-j- 



Part V.— FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



PAGE 

Our Own Countrj' .... James Montgomery 315 

ITie Star-Spangled Banner . Francis Scott Key 315 

Hail Columbia Toseph Hopkinson 316 

The American Flag . . Joseph Rodman Drake 316 

English National Anthem . . . Henry Carey 317 

Rule. Britannia! Tameti Thomson 317 

French National Anthem French of Roget De Lisle 317 



PAGE 

Prussian National Anthem . From the German 318 

The German's Fatherland . From the German 318 

Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims . E. Ereret 319 

The Pilgrim Fathers .... Ebenezer Elliot 320 

Pilgrim Song . . George Lunt 320 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . Mrs Hemans 321 

The Thirteen Colonies . . . T. W. Higginson 321 



CONTENTS 



Vll 



PAGE 

The Fathers of the Republic Bobert G. IngersoU a22 

Liberty or Death Patrick Henry 324 

Warreu's Address John Pierpont 325 

The Battle of Lexington . . . Sidney Lanier 326 

ilynm Balph Waldo Emerson 326 

Address to American Troops George Washington 327 

youg of Marion's Men . . William Cullen Bryant 327 

Kevolutionary Sermon Hugh Henry Br eckenridge 328 

Valley Forge Henry Armitt Brown 330 

Nathan Hale Francis Miles Finch 331 

Survivors of Battle of Bunlier Hill Daniel Webster 332 

Columbia Timothy Dwight 333 

South Carolina and Massachusetts Danid Webster 334 

South Carolina .... Bobert Young Hayne 335 

New England Caleb Cushing 336 

National Monument toWashington B. G. Winthrop 337 

Apoc.^ lypse Bichard Bealf 338 

Our Hei-oic Dead John A. Andreio 339 

How Sleep the Brave . . . William Collins 339 

Second Inaugural Address . Abraham Lincoln 340 

Dedication of Gettysbui'g Cemetery . A. Lincoln 341 

Gettysburg Monument . Charles Graham Halpine 341 

Centennial Oration . . . Henry Armitt Brown 343 

The Power of Eloquence .... Anonymous 344 

In State Forceythe Willson 345 

The Meaning of Our Flag . Bobert G. IngersoU 346 

E Pluribus Unum .... George W. Cutter 347 

The American Flag . . . Henry Ward Beecher 348 

Our Country Henry Armitt Brown 349 

Liberty and Union Daniel Webster 350 

The Ship of State . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 351 

The True Patriot .... Lord Bolingbroke 351 

Boadicea William Cowper 352 

England's Heroes Oscar Wilde 352 

Westward the Course of Empire George Berkeley 353 

The Tears of Scotland . Tobias George Smollett 354 



PAGE 

Hearts of Oak David Garrick 354 

Pro Pati'ia Mori Thomas Moore 355 

Men of England Thomas Campbell 355 

The Bonnie Banks of Ayr . . . Bobert Burns 355 

Scotland Sir Walter Scott 35G 

The Love of Country .... Sydney Smith 356 

Hymn of the Mountaineers . Felicia D. Hemans 356 

England William Wordsworth 357 

The Fall of Greece Lord Byron 357 

Freedom's True Heroes .... Lord Byron 357 

Ireland Denis Florence MacCarthy 358 

Enunet's Vindication .... Bobert Emmet 359 

Independence .... Tobias George Smollett 360 

Hallowed Ground .... Thomas Campbell 361 

Unjust National Acquisitions . Thomas Corivin 362 

The Ballet-Box . . . John Greenleaf Whittier 363 

Hai-p of the North .... ,S'm- Walter Scott 364 

Marco Bozzaris .... Fits- Greene Halleck 364 

Of Old Sat Fj-eedom on the Heights A. Tennyson 365 

Freedom John Barbour 365 

Love of Liberty . . • . . . William Coivper 366 

The Source of Party Wisdom James A. Garfield 366 

A Curse on the Traitor . . . Thomas Moore 367 

Downfall of Poland . . . Thomas Campbell 367 

Green Fields of England . Arthur Hugh Clough 367 

Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind Lord Byron 367 

Banuockburn Bobert Burns 368 

Our Country's Call . . William Cullen Bryant 368 

The Better Country .... Oliver Goldsmith 369 

The Isles of Greece Lord Byron 369 

The Progress of I^ibertj^ . . George D. Prentice 370 

Chai'acter of the Happy Warrior W. Wordsworth 370 

I'm With Y6u Once Again . George P. Morris 371 

What Constitutes a State . Sir William Jones 372 

The Love of Country . . . Sir Walter Scott 372 

It's Hame, and It's Hame . Allan Cunningham 372 



s^5 



paet VI.— camp and battle. 



The Battle of Alexandria 
The Ballad of Agincourt 
Ye Mariners of England . 
Battle of the Baltic . . 



James Montgomery 

. Michael Drauton 

Thomas Campbell 

Thomas Campbell 



Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott 

Naseby .... Thomas Babington Macaulay 
The Armada . . Thomas Babington 3facaulay 
The '-Revenge.'" A Ballad of the Fleet Tennyson 
Tlie Battle of Waterloo .... Victor Hugo 

Waterloo Lord Byron 

The Unretui'ning Brave .... Lord Byron 
The Charge of the Light Brigade W. H. Bussell 
The Charge of the Light Brigade . A. Tennyson 
The Battle of Balaklava . William H. Biissell 

Balaklava Alexander B. Meek 

Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor 



PAGE PAGE 

375 The Defense of Lucknow . . Alfred Tennyson 395 

376 Horatius at the Bridge . Thomas B. Macaulay 397 

377 The Battle of Ivry . . . Thomas B. Macaulay 403 

378 Incident of the French Camp . . B. Browning 404 

378 Fonteroy Thomas Davis 405 

379 Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell 406 

380 Carmen Bellieosum . Gxiy Humphrey 3IcMaster 406 
382 Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill O. W. Holmes 407 
384 The Black Horse and His Rider Charles Sheppard 410 

388 The Battle of the Cowpens Thomas Dunn English 411 

389 Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman 414 

389 Battle-Hymn of the Republic . Julia Ward Hoioe 414 

390 My Maryland James B. Bandall 414 

391 The Countersign Anonymous 415 

394 The Picket Guard .... Ethel Lynn Beers 416 

395 Bethel Augustine J. H. Dug anne 416 



VllI 



COXTEXTS. 



PAGE 

Civil War Charles Daicson Shanly 417 

'• How are Yon. Sanitary? " . . . Bret Harte 417 

Kearuej- at Seven Pines . Edmund C. Stedman 418 

The Old Sergeant .... Forcei/the Willson 419 

Sheridan's Ride . . . Thomas Buchanan Bead 421 

Stonewall Jackson's Way ... J. W. Palmer 422 

Barbara Frietchie . . John Greenleaf Widttier 423 

John Burns of Gettysburg .... Bret Harte 424 

The Charge by the Ford . Thomas Dunn English 42.5 



The Cavalry Char 
Cavalry Song . . 
The Cumberland 
The Bay-Fight . 
Ethiopia Saluting 
The C. S. Army's 
Song of theSoldie 
A Dream of "War 
Music in Camp , 



P.\GE 

ge . . Francis A. Durivage 425 

. Edmund Clarence Stedman 426 

, Henry Wadsicorth Lonyfelloio 420 

. . Henry Hoicard Broicnell 427 

the Colors . Walt Whitman 431 

Commissary Ed. P. Thompson 43S 

rs C .(t. Halpine (Mies ff Beilhj) 434 

. . . . Bohert Ct. Ini/ersoll 435 

.... John B. Thompson 436 



Pajjt A'II.— DESCRIPTIOX axd xarratiox. 



P.\GE 

" Atlantic " Benjamin F. Taylor 439 

The Ancient Mariner . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 440 

A Rill from the Town Pump Xathaniel Havsthorne 444 

The Wind in a Frolic .... William Hoicitt 446 

Chevy Chase Anonymous 44S 

The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life . . Colton 450 

The Coming-Back . . Ralph Waldo Emerson 451 

AVonderful Contrast .... George Bancroft 452 

The Landing of the Primrose Caroline B. Southey 453 

Come with the Birds . Harriet McEicen Kimball 455 

In the Elaine Woods . . Henry David Thoreau 456 

A Life on the Ocean Wave . . . Epes Sargent 458 

Skipper Ireson's Ride . John Greenleaf Whittier 459 

Xoon in Midsummer .... Louisa Bushnell 460 

The Sea in Calm B. W. Proctor (Barry Cornwall) 461 

Sabbath Morning . . . Xathaniel Hawthohie 461 

Skeleton in Armor . Henry Wadsicorth Longfellow 462 

An Evening Walk in Virginia James K. Paulding 464 

'• Old Ironsides" . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 465 

Saturday Afternoon . Nathaniel Parker Willis 465 

The Rustic Bridge William Cowper 466 

The Indian Chief Edward Everett 467 

The Windmill . Henry Wadsicorth Longfellow 468 

The Schoolmistress . . . William Shenstone 468 

Tam O'Shanter Bobert Burns 469 

A Rainy Sunday at a Country Inn . W. Irving 471 

Burial of ^Sloses . . . Cecil Frances Alexander 472 

Impressions of Xiagara . . . Charles Dickens 474 

Money Musk Benjamin F. Taylor 475 

The Old Tillage Choir . . Benjamin F. Taylor 476 

The Old Home . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 477 

The Power of Habit J. B. Gough 477 

The Village Blacksmith . . H. W. Longfellow 478 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . Lord Byron 479 

The Xew England School . Oliver W. Holmes 479 

The Tempest James Thomas Fields 480 

Evening Cloud . JohnWilson (Christopher Xorth) 480 

Tlie Stream of Life .... Beginald Heher 480 

Lucy Gray William Wordsworth 481 

The Snow-Storm . . Charles Gamage Eastman 482 

Casablanca .... Felicia Dorothea Hemans 483 

The Old Canoe Emily B. Page 483 

A Greyport Legend Bret Harte 484 

The Grape-Vine Swing William Gilmore Simms 485 



PAGE 

Moonlight on the Prairie . H. W. Longfellow 485 

We "11 Go to Sea no More . . . J^Iiss Corbett 486 

The Wrecked Ship . . . William Falconer 487 

The Pilot ........ John B. Gough 487 

The Burning of Chicago . Benjamin F. Taylor 488 

Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots . J. Lingurd 490 

A Glass of Cold AVater Anonymous 491 

Betsy and I are Out .... Will J/. Carleton 492 

Betsy Destroys the Paper . . Will 21. Carleton 493 

How They Brought the Good Xews . Browning 495 

The Fall of Pemberton Mill . Elizabeth S. Phelps 496 

A Xorthern Winter . . . James Montgomery 501 

The Children in the Wood . . . Anonymous 502 

The Massacre of Fort Dearborn . B. F. Taylor 503 

The Shipwrecked Sailors . James Montgomery 504 

Discovery of America . . William Bobertson 505 

The Death of Xapoleon . . . Isaac McCleVan 507 

The Grave of Bonaparte .... Anonymous 50S 

The Overland Train Joaquin Miller 50S 

Robbing the Xest Alice Cary 509 

The Famine . . Henry Wadsworth LongfeVow 510 

The Bride Sir John Suckling 511 

The Old :Mill W. H. Venable 512 

Paul Revere's Ride . . . . H. W. Longfellow 513 

Trial of Richard Baxter . . . James Stephen 514 

The Shipwreck Lord Byron 515 

The Flood of Years . . Williani Cullen Bryant 516 

The Indians ........ Joseph Storey 517 

The Old Water- Wheel .... John Buskin 518 

Wreck of the Ship John Wilson( Christopher North) 519 

The Glove and the Lions .... Leigh Hunt 520 

The Heron .... James Maurice Thompson 521 

The Brides of Enderby .... Jean Ingelow 522 

Croquet Amanda T. Jones ' 523 

Climbing Mount Albano .... John Buskin 524 

I>ord Lllin's Daughter . . Thomas Campbell 525 

nie Blind Preacher William Wirt 526 

Enoch Arden's Childhood . . Alfred Tennyson 527 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill William Wordsinjrth 528 

^Moonliffht Bobert Bloomfeld 529 

The River Wye .... William Wordsworth 530 

Lochinvar's Ride Sir Walter Scott 530 

The Closing Year .... George D. Prentice 531 

The Closing Scene . . Thomas Buchanan Bead 532 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



Part VIII.— PLACES AND PERSONS. 



PAGE 

Yarrow Unvisited . . . William Wordsworth 535 

Yarrow Visited .... William Woi-clsioorfh 536 

Yarrow Stream John Logan 537 

The Deserted Village . . . Oliver Goldsmith 538 

The Vale of Cashmere . . . Thomas Muore 544 

Venice Samuel Rogers 545 

The Orient Lord Byron 545 

Coliseum by Moonlight .... Lord Byron 54G 

Kome Samuel Rogers 546 

Melrose Abbey Sir Walter Scott 547 

Fair Greece! Sad Relic of Departed Worth Byron 547 

The Inchcape Rock .... Robert Southey 547 

Cape Hatteras . . • . . Josiah W. Holden 548 

A Voyage Round the World . James Montgomery 550 

On Leaving the West . . . Margaret Fuller 554 

Bonaparte Charles Phillips 555 

Death of the Duke of Wellington . A. Tennyson 556 

Warden of the Cinque Ports . H. W. Longfellow 557 

The Knight's Tomb . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 558 

Columbus Sir Aubrey Be Vere 558 

The Burial of Sir John Moore . Charles Wolfe 559 

Galileo Edward Everett 559 

David the Painter Francis Mahony (Father Prout) 560 

Joan of Arc Thomas DeQuincey 561 

Charles XII. of Sweden . . Samuel Johnson 562 

Byron Robert Pollok 562 

At the Tomb of Byron .... Joaquin Miller 563 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare . Ben Jonson 5G3 

Sir .John Franklin . . . George Henry Baker 564 



PAGE 

Marie Antoinette, Queen of France Edm. Burke 565 

Death of Marie Antoinette . . Thomas Carlyle 566 

Burns Horatio Nelson Poioers 566 

Burns Ebenezer Elliot 567 

Death of Goethe . . . George Henry Lewes 567 

To Thomas Moore Lord Byron £68 

To Vietoi' Hugo Alfred Tennyson 568 

Mazzini . Laura C. Redden (Hoivard Glyndon) 568 

Lord Raglan Edwin Arnold 569 

Dickens in Camp Bret Harte 569 

Washington Thomas Jefferson 570 

Lincoln Phillips Brooks 571 

Abraham Lincoln Tom Taylor 572 

Garfield's Last Days .... James G. Blaine 573 

Garfield David Swing 574 

Ichabod John Greenleaf Whittier 574 

The Lost Occasion . . John G^'eenleaf Whittier 575 

John Brown of Osawatomie . E. C. Stedman bio 

Nathaniel Hawthorne , . . H. W. Longfelloio 577 

Bayard Taylor . . . John Greenleaf Whittier 578 

Ba3'ard Taylor . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 578 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . F. F. Brovme 579 

Horace Greeley . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 579 

Joseph Rodman Drake . Fitz- Greene Halleck 580 

Dirge for a Soldier . . . George Henry Bbker 580 

Vale Richard malf 581 

A Friend's Greeting' .... Bayard Taylor 581 

My Psalm John Greenleaf Whittier 582 



-©--sc^SL 



Part IX.— AYIT AND HUMOR. 



Diverting History of John Gilpin . Wm. Coivper 

Words and their Uses Frank Clive 

The Nantucket Skipper . James Thomas Fields 



Gluggity Glng 



George Colman the Younger 



Mr. Schmidt's Mistake . . Charles F. Adams 
The Wonderful " One-Hoss Shay " 0. W. Holmes 
The Smack in School . . William Pitt Palmer 
The Blind Men and the Elephant John G. S<xe 
The Spider and the Fly .... Mary Howitt 

A Modest Wit Se.lleck Osborne 

Mrs. Caudle's Lecture on Shirt Buttons Jerrold 

John Davidson . Anonymous 

Tile Housekeeper's Soliloquy . Mrs. F. D. Gage 
The Old Man in the Wood . . . Anonymous 
The Origin of Roast Pig . . . Charles Lamb 
Frenchman and the Flea Powder . Anonijmous 
The Religion of Hudibras . . Samuel Butler 

To a Louse Robert Burns 

The Chameleon James Merrick 

Editing an Agricultural Paper . Mark Twain 
The Ballad of the Ovster Man . 0. W. Holmes 



PAGE PAGE 

.585 Too Late Fitz Hugh Ludlow 603 

5S7 The Wrong JIan Anonymous 603 

588 The Society upon the Stanislaus . Bret Harte 604 

589 Love is Like a Dizziness .... James Hogg 60-5 

589 Lawyer's Invocation to Spring H. P. H. Broomell 605 

590 Roi-y O'Moore Samuel Lover 606 

591 Sally in oiu- Alley Henry Carey 606 

591 Bachelor's Hall John Finley 007 

592 Womsin's^'RighXs- Chas. F. Browne (Artemus Ward) 607 

593 I was with Grant Bret Harte COS 

593 Out, John Thomas Haynes Bailey 608 

594 The Lost Heir Thonvis Hood 609 

595 Dr. Hill "s Farces ...... David Garrick 610 

595 Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . Charles Dickens 611 

596 Old Grimes Albert Gorton Greene 613 

599 The Lovers Phabe Cary 614 

599 Is it Anybody's Business .... Anonymous 614 

599 Tlie Low- Backed Car .... Samuel Lover 615 

600 Old-School Punishment .... Anonymous 615 

601 Captain Reece Wm. S. Gilbert 616 

602 The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" . TKu. ,9. (?j76erf 617 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Leedle Yawcob Strauss . . Charles F. Adams 618 

Saint Patrick Henry Bennett 618 

Truth iu Parenthesis Thomas Hovd 619 

Mrs. Partington Sydney Smith 619 

No: Thomas Hood 619 

Jolly Good Ale and Old John Still 620 

A Baby's Soliloqiiy Anonymous 620 

A Vegetable Convention . George W. Bungay 621 

To a Fish . . . John Wolcott (Peter Pindar) 621 

A Night of Teri-or . . . Paul Louis Courier 622 

The Sailor's Consolation .... William Pitt 623 

Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown . John Hughes 624 

The Philosopher's Scales . . . Jaiie Taylor 624 

Curing a Cold . ;S'. C. Clemens (Mark Twain) 625 

Popping Corn Anonymous 625 

Plain Language from Truthful James Bret Harte 626 



PAGK 

The Height of the Kidiculous . O. W. Holmes 627 

To My Nose . A. A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill) 627 

The Broken Pitcher Anonymous 628 

The Bachelor Sale Anonymous 628 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 0. Goldsmith 628 

Hans Breitmauu's Partj- . . Charles G. Leland 629 

Sewing on a Button . . Banbury Neics 3Ian G29 

Little Billee . . William Makepeace Thackeray 630 

A Housekeeper's Tragedj' . . . Anonymous 630 

The Puzzled Census-Taker . John Godfrey Saxe 631 

Old Jim's Prayer . Sidney and Clifford Lanier 631 

Catalogue of Dickens' Works . . Anonymous 632 

The Nightingale and Glow-Worm Wm. Cowper 633 

The New Church Organ . . Will M. Carleton 633 

The Declaration .... John Godfrey Saxe 634 



Part X.— SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



PAGE 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard T.Gray 637 

Thanatopsis .... William Cullen Bryant 643 

I Remember, I Remember . . Thomas Hood 644 

Two Sounets Ed. Porter Thompson 645 

Too Late I Stayed . . William RoheiH Spencer 645 

My Life is Like the Summer Rose . B. H. White 646 

Night James Montgomery 646 

Break, Break, Break .... Alfred Tennyson 648 

Reflections in Westminster Abbej' Joseph Addison 648 

Bugle-Song Alfred Tennyson 649 

Those Evening Bells .... Thomas Moore 650 

Pictures of Memory Alice Cary 650 

The Divinity of Poetry . Percy Bysshe SheUey 651 

The Lesson of the Water-Mill . Sarah Doudney 652 

A Hundred Years to Come . William G. Brown 6.i3 

The Two Weavers Hannah More 654 

Apple Blossoms Anonymous 655 

June William Cullen Bryant 655 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School Mrs. Hemans 657 

What is Life'? Francis Quarles 658 

Calm is the Night . . Charles Godfrey Leland 658 

Song Celia Thaxter 6.59 

May John Esten Cooke 659 

Pleasures of Memory .... Samuel Bogers 660 

A Joy Forever John Keats 6G2 

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer . Thomas Moore 662 

The Isle of the Long Ago . . . B. F Taylor P.62 

Hope Thomas Campbell 663 

To a Child ....... John James Piatt 663 

Sonnet Paul Hamilton Hayne 664 

Life's Incongruities Egbert Phelps 664 

Equinoctial 3Irs. A. D. T. Whitney 664 

Circumstance Alfred Tennyson 605 

The Rose upon My Balconj^ . W. M. Thackeray 665 

The Death of the Old Year . Alfr- d Tennyson 666 

Hope Joaquin Miller 667 



PAGE 

Alas I How Light a Cause . . Thomas Moore 667 

Bendemeer's Stream .... Thomas Moore 668 

At Night Forceythe Willson 668 

The Library Robert Southey 669 

The Toj'S Coventry Patmore 670 

Mercy William Shakespeare 670 

Beside the Sea William Winter 670 

Woodman, Spare That Tree . . G. P. Morris 671 

Small Beginnings Charles Mackay 672 

Song William AUingham 673 

The River John Hay 673 

Hope Bichord Alison 673 

Fidelity William Wordsworth 674 

Toward Home . . . Nnthnniel Parker Willis 675 

Lines William D. Gallagher 675 

A Little Word in Kindness Spoken Colesicorthy 675 

The Way to Sing . Helen Hunt Jackson (H. H.) 676 

The Maiden's Prayer . Nathaniel Parker Willis 677 

Life Charlotte Bronte 677 

The Place AMiere Man Should Die . M. J. Barry 677 

The Dead Bichard Henry Stoddard 678 

Chimney Swallows . . Hjratio Xelson Powers 678 

The First Tryst John James Piatt 678 

Echo and Silence . Sir Samuel Egerton Bridges 679 

Excelsior . . . Henry Wodsworth Longfelloio 679 

Fame From the German of Schiller 679 

LocksleyHall Alfred Tennyson 6S0 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College . T. Gray 684 

L'pon the Beach . . . Henry Darid Thoreau 685 

Sorrow for the Dead . . . Washington L-ving 686 

Egyptian Serenade . . George William Curtis 687 

Satisfied Charlotte Fiske Bates 688 

Think of :Me . . . . John Hamilton Reynolds 688 

Ashes of Roses Elaine G<iodale 688 

Forever John Boyle O'Reilly 689 

Bell? of Shandon Fraricis Mahony (Father Prout) 689 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



PAGE 

Hearts that Hunger Anomjmous 690 

I Saw Two Clouds at Moi'uing J. G. C. Brainard 690 

Self-Dependeuce Matthew Arnold 691 

Days of My Youth . ... St. George Tucker 691 

Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns 691 

Lazy George Arnold 692 

We Have Been Friends Together C. E. S. Norton 692 

Alone by the Bay . . Louise Chandler 3Ioulton 693 

The Joys of Memory . . . Henry A. Walker 693 

The Meeting Waters . . Elizabeth H. Whittier 693 

A Name in the Sand . . . George D. Prentice 694 

On Visiting a Scene of Childhood . Anonymous 694 

Mother, Home, Heaven . Wm . Goldsmith Brown 695 

Give Me Back My Youth Again . Bayard Taylor 695 

At Last Caroline Leslie 696 

Waiting William Goldsmith Brown 696 

The Book of Job Thomas Carlyle 696 

Mortality William Knox 697 

Oft in the Stilly Night .... Thomas Moore 697 

The Light- House . . Sarah Hammond Palfrey 698 

At Best John Boyle O'Reilly 698 



PAGE 

By the Autumn Sea . Paul Hamilton Hayne 699 

Take Heart Edna Bean Proctor 699 

Time Eolls His Ceaseless Course Sir Walter Scott 700 

When Stars are in the Quiet Skies . E. B. Lytton 700 

Dreamers Joaquin Miller 701 

Answer to a Child's Question . ;S'. T. Coleridge 701 

Indirection Richard Realf 701 

The Departure of the Swallow . Wm. Howitt 702 

A Farewell Charles Kingsley 702 

The Two Roads Jean Paul Richter 703 

Drifting Tliomas Buchanan Read 704 

Alone by the Hearth .... George Arnold 706 

Waiting by the Gate . . William Cullen Bryant 707 

Gloster on His Deformity . . Wm. Shakespeare 708 

Sunbeams Egbert Phelps 708 

The Vicissitudes of Life . William Shakespeare 708 

Esti-angement . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 709 

Hamlet's Soliloqu}^ . . . William Shakespeare 709 

To-Day Thomas Carlyle 709 

The Stream Arthur Hugh Clough 710 



-lS-^cT-EZj- 



part XI.— grief and pathos. 



PAGE 

The Two Villages .... Rose Terry Cooke 713 

The Blind Boy Colley Cibber 714 

The Old Familiar Faces . . . Charles Lamb 714 

Churchyard of the Village . . . John Wilson 715 

My Heart and I . . Elisabeth Barrett Browning 715 

With the Dead .... Percy Bysshe Shelley 716 

A Death-Bed James Aldrich 111 

The Death of the Flowers . William C. Bryant 717 

Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley 718 

On My Mother's Picture . . . William Cowper 719 

The Bridge of Sighs Thomas Hood 719 

Little Shoes and Stockings . . . Anonymous 720 

When We Two Parted .... Lord Byron 720 

Little Jim Anonymous 721 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant . Lady Dufferin 722 

The Old Sexton Park Benjamin 724 

The Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 724 

Man Was Made to Mourn . . . Robert Burns 724 

The Three Fishers .... Charles Kingsley 725 

The Beggar Thomas Moss 726 

The Voice of the People Lady Wilde (Speranza) 726 

Under the Daisies . . . Hattie Tyng Griswold Til 

Exile of Erin Thomas Campbell 727 

When the Grass shall Cover Me Ina D. Coolbrith 728 

Sleep Elizabeth Barrett Broirning 728 

The Song of the Shirt .... Thomas Hood 728 

The Conquered Banner . . . Ahram T. Ryan 730 

If May Riley Smith 730 

Somebody's Darling . . . Marie R. Lacoste 731 

Rosalie William C. Richards 731 



PAGE 

Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Bodge 732 

Florence Vane . . . Philip Pendleton Cooke 732 

A Mother's Heart Anonymous 732 

The Djang Boy Anonymous 733 

Angelus Song Austin Dobson 733 

Our Childhood George D. Prentice 734 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp . Thomas Moore 734 

Balow, My Babe, Ly Stil and Sleipe Anonymous 735 

A Life . Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Cornwall) 735 

" Only A Year "... Harriet Beecher Stowe 736 

After the Ball Nora Perry 736 

The Hour of Death . Felicia Dorothea Hemans 737 

The Death-Bed Thomas Hood T31 

Death of Little Nell .... Charles Dickens 738 

The Mother's Sacrifice Seba Smith 739 

The Passage Sarah Austen 739 

Now and Afterwards Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 739 

Over the Hill to thePoor-House Will M. Carleton 7-10 

Gethsemane Ella Wheeler 741 

The Banks o' Doon Robert Burns 741 

Sad is Our Youth, for It is Ever Going A. De Vere 742 

The Blind Boy Anonymous 742 

In the Sea Hiram Rich 742 

James Melville's Child . 3Irs. A. Stuart Menteath 743 

To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns 744 

Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe 744 

We are Seven William Wordsworth 744 

Dirge Charles Gamage Eastman 745 

Three Kisses Hattie Tyng Griswold 746 

The Brave at Home . Thomas Buchanan Read 746 



xu 



CONTEXTS 



PAGE 

Auld Eobin Graj^ .... Lady Anne Barnard 747 

My IjOve is Dead .... Thomas Chatterton 747 

Old Times Anonymous 748 

Old Ralph Hoyt 748 

My Mother's Bible .... Georye P. Morris 750 

Bingen on theEhiiie Caroline Elizabeth S. Norton 751 

The Last of Seven Avis Willmott 752 

The Voiceless .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 752 

Resignation . . Henry Wadsicorth Longfelloio 752 

The Bivouac of the Dead • . Theodore O'Hara 753 

Oui- Soldiers' Graves ...... Jones Very 754 

Bereavement John Kehle 755 

Three Roses .... Thomas Bailey Aldrich 756 

Highland Mary Bobert Burns 756 

Requiescat Oscar Wilde 757 

The Blind Man James Cfrahanie 757 

I'he Plague-Stricken Citv . Marie B. Williams 758 



PAGE 

Footsteps of Angels . . Henry W. Longfellow l^B 

The Fate of Poets . . . William Wordsworth 759 

The Cradle Austin Dobson 759 

Into the World and Out . . Sallie J/. B. Piatt 759 

The Reaper and the Flowers . H. W. Longfellow 759 

Last AVords Henry Alford 760 

Tears, Idle Tears Alfred Tennyson 761 

Dead in Xovember E. Hannaford 762 

The Child's Fii-st Grief . . Felicia D. Hemans 762 

Hannah Binding Shoes .... Lucy Larcom 763 

The Cross .... Elisabeth (Bundle) Charles 763 

The Little Mourner Henry Alford 764 

Baby Bell Thomas Bailey Aldrich 765 

Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 766 

Decoration Daj' at Charleston . Henry Timrod 736 

The Outcast Oliver Goldsmith 767 

The Blue and the Gray . . Fra)icis Miles Finch 768 



s^S"^ 



Part XII.— THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



PAGE 

Clear the AVay Charles Mackay 771 

What is Noble Charles Swain 772 

The Laborer William D. Gallagher 772 

Tact and Talent Anonymous 773 

Never Give Up Anonymous 774 

The Gentleman George W. Doane 774 

Want of Decision Sydney Smith 775 

For A' That, and A' That . . . Bobert Burns lib 

Ode to Duty William Wordsworth 776 

A Great Lawyer C. C. Bonney 776 

Labor Frances Sargent Osgood 777 

Advice to Young Men Xoah Porter 777 

A Psalm of Life . Henry Wadsicorth Longfellow 778 

Tri;ils a Test of Character IFi7/iffH!J/or?ey Punshon 778 

Grudatim Josiah Gilbert Holland 779 

How to Live Horatius Bonar 779 

SaynottheStruggleNoughtAvaileth A.H.Clough 780 

Prosperity and Adversitj^ .... Lord Bacon 780 

How We Learn Horatius Bonar 780 

Press On Park Benjamin 781 

A True Woman Bobert Dodsley 781 

The Supremac.v of Virtue . . . John Milton 782 

Industry and Genius . . Henry Ward Beecher 782 



The Light of Stars Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 783 

A Hai^pj' Life Sir Henry Wotton 783 

The Dignitj- of Labor .... Neivman Hall 784 

Heard are the Voices .... Thomas Carlyle 785 

The Ends of Life Phillips Brooks 785 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is . Sir Edward Dyer 786 

Success in Life Anonymous 786 

Honorable Employment . . . John Webster 786 

Pride of Birth William Penn 787 ■ 

The Elixir George Herbert 788 

The Morality of Manners . . . Horace Mann 788 

The Aim of Life .... Philip James Bailey 788 

Blessed is He . . . John Addington Symonds 789 

Labor and Poverty .... Tiiomas Carlyle 789 

Reaper of Life's Harvest .... Anonymous 790 

Don't Be Discouraged Anonymous 790 

Earthly Influence Thomas Carlyle 790 

AMiat Was His Creed? Anonymous 791 

On the Education of a Family . Lord Burleigh 791 

A Rhyme of Life . . Charles Warren Stoddard 792 

Industry Benjamin Franklin 792 

My Work Frances Bidley Huvergal 792 



-^^5 



Part XIIL— THE BETTER LAND. 



PAGE 

Ode on Immoitality . . William Wordsxcorth 795 

The Discoverer . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 797 

The Future Life . . . William Cullen Bryant 798 

There is No Death . . . . J. L. McCreery 798 



PAGE 

"Blessed are They that Mourn"' . W.C.Bryant 799 

The Mariner's Hynm . Caroline Bowles Southey 799 

Abide with Us: for it is Evening . H. N. Poioers 800 

Shall AVe Meet Again . . . George D. Prentice 800 



CONTENTS. 



Xlll 



PAGE 

Home and Heaven Jones Very 801 

Rest is Not Here . . . Ladu Caroline Nairne SOI 

Peace Mary Clemmer Ames 801 

My Legacy . . . Helen Hunt Jackson (H. H.J 802 

The Silent Laud . . . Kate Seymour McLean 802 

Ttie Deatli of tlie Virtuous Anna Letitia Barhauld 803 

I Sliall be Satisfied Anonymous 803 

Tlie Mountains of Life J. G. Clark 803 

Immortality Richard Henry Dana 804 

The Better Way Jean Ingelow 804 

The Way, the Truth, and tbeLife Theodore Parker 804 

Rest 3Iary V/oolsey Howland 805 

Onlj' Waiting .... Frances Laughton Mace 805 

Life Anna Letitia Barbauld 805 

Reunion in Heaven . William Morley Punshon 806 

No More Sea Anonymous 807 

"They that Seek Me Early Shall Find Me " Clark 807 

The Risen Christ Edward Young 807 

The Land o' the Leal . . Lady Caroline Nairne 808 

The Laud oi Which I Dream . Horatius Bonar 808 

Bird. Let Loose in Eastern Skies . Thos. Moore 808 

Tell Me, Ye Winged Winds . Charles Mackay 809 

The Dying Christian to his Soul Alexander Pope 809 

Dying Hynm Alice Cary 809 

Heaven Nancy Priest Wakefield 810 

Heaven our Home .... George B. Prentice 810 

Up-Uill Christina G. Bossetti 810 



PAGE 

In Harbor Paul Hamilton Hayne 811 

Two AVorlds Mortimer Collins 811 

When . . . Sarah W^^olsey (Susan Coolidge) 812 

Abide with Me Henry Francis Lyte 812 

'' I Too "... Constance Fenimore Woolson 813 

No Sorrow There Daniel March 813 

This World is all a Fleeting Show . Thos. Moore 813 

The Other World . . . Harriet Beechtr Stowe 814 

A Better World George D. Prentice 814 

Ministry of Angels .... Edmund Spenser 814 

"Father, Take My Hand" . . Henry N. Cobb 815 

Ripe Grain Dora Bead Goodale 815 

Nearer Home Phwbe Cary 815 

The Pillar of the Cloud . John Henry Newman 816 

Hereafter . . . . . Harriet Prescott Spofford 816 

The Eternal Rest Edmund Spenser 816 

I Would Not Live Alway . Wm. A. Muhlenberg 817 

The Rest of the Soul . . . . F.W. Bobertson 817 

The Eternal Home Edmxind Waller 817 

" Follow Me " Abram T. Byan 818 

All Before Anonymous 818 

The Divine Abode .... Bhilip Doddridge 818 

Safe to the Land Henry Alford 819 

Over the River . . . Nancy Priest Wakefield 819 

Parted Friends James Montgomery 820 

The Eternal Percy Bysshe Shelley 820 

Beyond the Hills Horatius Bonar 820 



Paet XIV.— MISCELLA^teOUS. 



PAGE 

Down in the Harbor . . Elizabeth Akers Allen 823 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue . . . George Arnold 824 

Here's to Them that areGoue Lady Caroline Nairne 825 

The Toper's Apology .... Charles Morris 825 

A Visit from St. Nicholas . Clement C. Moore 826 

The Spacious Firmament on High Joseph Addison 827 

Negro Revival Hymn . . Joel Chandler Harris 828 

The Old Shepherd's Dog J. Wolcott( Peter Pindar) 829 

The Bells Edgar Allan Poe 830 

Aunt Silva Meets Young Mas'r Ed P.Thompson 831 

The Grave James Montgomery 832 

The World Henry Vaughn 833 

AVilliam Tell among the Mountains J. S.Knowles 834 

My Heart 's in the Highlands . . Bobert Burns 836 

The Raven Edgar Allan Poe 836 

There is Mist on the Mountain Sir Walter Scott 838 

The Dream of Argyle . . Elizabeth H. Whittier 839 

Childhood's Prayer .... Newton S. Otis 841 

The Lady's "Yes" . Elizabeth Barrett Brovniing 842 

The Last Leaf .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 843 

Q'he Noble Nature Ben Jonson 843 

Of a Contented Mind . . Thomas, Lord Vaux 844 

The Sea-Bird's Song . John Gardiner C.Brainard 845 

The Manner's Dream. . . . William Dimond 846 



PAGE 

Ring Out, Wild Bells . . . Alfred Tennyson 846 

The Moneyless Man . . . Henry T. Stanton 847 

O May I Join the Choir Invisible . George Eliot 847 

The Modern Belle Anonymous 848 

Aunt Tabitha .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 848 

Providence Anonymous 849 

Rhymes of the Mouths .... Clark Jillson 849 

Beautiful Snow James W. Watson 852 

Every Year Albert Pike 852 

The Winged Worshipers . . Charles Sprague 8.53 

Night and Death . . . Joseph Blanco White 853 

Fortitude Edward Young 854 

Our Mother Tongue J. G. Lyons 855 

The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls Moore 856 

The Vagabonds . . John Townsend Trowbridge 856 

LTniversal Prayer Alexander Pope 857 

The College Regatta . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 858 

Evening Sir Walter Scott 858 

Children's Thankfulness .... John Keble 859 

Norval John Home 860 

My Creed Theodore Tilton 860 

O Sweet Wild Roses . . Bichard Watson Gilder 860 

To a Bereaved Mother . . John Quincy Adams 861 

The Pauper's Drive Mm Noel 861 



XIV 



CONTEXTS. 



PAGE 

Ligbt Francis W. Bourdillon 861 

Maud Muller .... John Greenleaf Whittier 862 

Death the Leveler James Shirley 864 

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortalitj- Joseph Addison 864 

I'm Growing Old .... John Godfrey Saxe 864 

The Soldier's Dream . . . Thomas Campbell 865 

Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 865 

To My Mother .... Arthur Hennj Hallim 865 

Atheist and Acorn . Anne, Countess of Winchelsea 866 

Buena Vista Albert Pike 867 

Even-Tide Mrs. J. 31. Winton 868 

Waiting John Burroughs 870 

The Blessed Damozel . . Dante Gabriel Rossetti 870 

Blindness John Milton 871 

The Plaidie Charles Sibley 871 

Vertue George Herbert 871 

The Daisy • Geoffrey Chaucer 871 

Places of Worship . . . William Wordsworth 872 



PAGE 

The Beacon-Light Julia Pardoe 872 

God"s-Acre . . Henry Wadsworth Longfelloio 873 

Daniel Graj^ .... Josiah Gilbert Holland 874 

"I Hold Still" From the German 874 

The Battle of Blenheim . . . Robert Southey 875 

Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt 875 

A-Huuting We Will Go . . . Henry Fielding 876 

How 's My Boy Sydney Dobell 876 

The Hills Were Made for Freedom W. G. Brown 877 

A Christmas Hymn Alfred Domett 878 

Look Aloft Jonathan Lawrence, Jr. 878 

Faith Frances Anne Kemble 878 

Procrastination Edwo.rd Young 879 

Death of Old Age John Dry den 879 

O Captain ! My Captain ! . . . WaU Whitman 879 

The Mj'Steries .... William Dean Hoicells 879 

Counsel to a Friend . . William Shakespeare 8*^0 

Books Robert Leighton 880 



List of Tllttstratioxs . 
Biographies of Authors 



889 
893 



-^A9 




IN"DEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 
ADAM, JEAX. 

Sailor's Wile, The 79 

ADiVJNIS, CHARLES F. 

I,eedlc Yawcob Strauss .... 618 

Mr. Schmidt's Mistake 589 

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY. 

To a Bereaved Mother 861 

ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality 

(from Cato, A Tragedy) . . . 864 
Eeflcctions in Westminster Abbey 

(from The Spectator) .... 648 

Spacious Firmament on High . 827 

AINSLIE, HEW. 

Ingle-Side, The 58 

AI.DRICH, JAMES. 

Death-Bed, A 717 

ALDRICH, TH03IAS BAILEY'. 

Alter tlie Rain 173 

Baby Bell 765 

Before the Rain 173 

Sad are They Who Know Not Love 117 

TInee Roses 756 

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 

Burial ol Moses 472 

ALFORD, HENRY. 

Aged Oak at Oaklej-, The . . . 236 

Last Words 760 

Little Mourner, The 764 

Safe to the Land 819 

ALISON, RICHARD. 
Cherry-RixDe (fi'om An Hour's Re- 
creation in Musicke) 98 

Hope 673 

ALLEN, ELIZ.U5ETH AKERS, 

(Flokenci; Tkrcy). 
Down in the Harbor tlie Sliips lie 

Moored 823 

Old Story, The 126 

Rock Me to Sleep 106 

ALLINGHAM, ^VILLIAM. 

Mowers, Tlie 290 

Song 673 

AMES, INIAJRY CLEMMER. 

Peace 801 

ANDERSON, ALEX.\NDER. 

Bairnies, Cuddle Doon .... 70 

ANDREW, JOHN A. 

Our Heroic Dead 339 

ANNE, COUNTESS OF AVINCHEL- 
SEA. 

Atheist and the Acorn, The . . 866 

ANONYMOUS. 

All Before 818 

Angler, The 221 

Apple Blossoms 655 

Baby's Soliloquv 620 

Baciielor Sale, The 628 

Balow, My Babe, Ly Stil and 

Sleipe 735 

Be Kind '73 

Blind Boy, The 742 

Broken Pitcher, The 628 

Catalogue of Dickens' Works . 632 

Changes in Nature 190 

Cheerful Home, A 48 

Chevy Chase 448 

Children in the Wood 502 

City and Country 287 

Comin' Through the Rye. ... 105 

Conversation 61 

Countersign, The 415 

Country Life 287 

Don't lie Discouraged 790 



PAGE 
ANONY^MOUS. 

Dying Boy, The 733 

Farm Life 302 

Frenchman and the Flea Powder 598 

French National Anthem . . . 317 
German's Fatherland (from tlie 

German) 318 

Glass of Cold Water 491 

Grave of Bonaparte 508 

Hearts That Hunger 690 

Home 42 

Home Adornment 82 

Home Courtesy 60 

Housekeeper's Tragedy .... 630 

"I Hold Still" 874 

I Shall be Satisfied 803 

Is It Anybody's Business . . . 614 

John Davidson 594 

Light of a Clieerful Face ... 80 

Linger Not Long 107 

Little .Jim 721 

Little Shoes and Stockings . . . 720 

Modern BeUe, The 848 

Mothers and Sons 67 

Mother's Heart 732 

Mothers of Distinguished Men . 64 

Mothers, Sparc Y'ouiselves ... 73 

Mount of the Holy Cross . . . 177 

Never Gi\'e Up 774 

No More Sea 807 

No Time Like the Old Time . . 95 

Old Man in the Wood 595 

Old- School Punishment .... 615 

Old Times 748 

On Visiting a Scene of Childhood 694 

Patter of Little Feet 74 

Pheasant, The 237 

I'opping Corn 626 

Power of Eloquence 344 

Providence 849 

Prussian National Anthem (from^ 

the German) 318 

Reaper of Life's Hai-vest .... 790 

Success in Life 786 

Sweet Hand 110 

Tact and Talent 773 

Tell Your Wife 89 

Thrusli, Tlie 237 

Useful Plough, The 285 

What Was His Creed . . • . . 791 

Winifreda 99 

Winter's Fireside, A 47 

Wrong Man, The 603 

ARNOLD, ED-\YIN. 

Lord Raglan 569 

Song of Ki'ishna, (from The Indian 

Song of Songs) 122 

ARNOLD, GEORGE. 

Alone by the Hearth 706 

Jolly Old Pedagogue, The ... 824 

Lazy 692 

September 252 

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 

Self-Depeudence 691 

AUSTEN, SARAH. 

Passage, The 739 

AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 

I Do Confess Thou'rt Sweet . . 127 

BACON, LORD. 

Prosperity and Adversity ... 780 

BAILEY, J. M. (Danbury News 
Man). 

Sewing on a Button 629 

BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. 

Aim of Life, Tlie (from Festus) . 788 



PAGE 
BAILLIE, JOANNA. 

Gowan Glitters on the Sward . . 133 

Heath-Cock, The 178 

Morning Song 133 

BANCROFT, GEORGE. 

AVonderful Contrast 452 

BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA. 

Deatli of the \'irtuous 803 

Eagle, Tlie 186 

Life 805 

BARBOUR, JOHN. 

Freedom 365 

BARNARD, LADY' ANNE. 

Auld Robin Gray 747 

BAItNES, WILLIAM. 

Rural Nature 295 

BARNFIELD, ROBERT. 

Nightingale, To the 177 

BARR, MATTHIAS. 

Only a Baby Small 58 

BARRY, IVnCHAEL JOSEPH. 

Place where Man Should Die . . 677 
BATES, CHARLOTTE PISKE. 

Satisfied 6SS 

BAYLY, THOMAS H^VYTsTlS. 

Out, John 608 

BEATTIE, JABIES. 

Contentment with Nature (from 

The Minstrel) 307 

Summer Morn, A (fi'om The Min- 
strel) 224 

BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL. 

How Many Times 105 

BEECHER, HENRY WAKD. 

American Flag, The 348 

Industry and Genius 782 

BEERS, ETHEL LYNN. 

Not One to Sisare 66 

Picket Guard, The 416 

BENJAMIN, PARK. 

Old Sexton, The 724 

Press On 781 

BENSTETT, HENRY'. 

Saint Patrick 618 

BERKELEY', GEORGE. 

AVestward the Course of Empire 352 
BLAINE, JAMES G. 

Gai-fleld's Last Days (from Eulogy 

on Garfield) 573 

BLAKE, '\^1LLIAM. 

Tiger, The 222 

BLOOBIFIELD, ROBERT. 

Farmer's Bo>-, The (from The 

Farmer's Boy) 296 

Lambs atPlay (irom TheFarmer's 

Boy) 196 

Moonlight (fi'om Tlie Farmer's Boy 529 

Spring Day, A (from TheFarmer's 

Boy) 235 

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. 

Dirge for a Soldier 580 

Sir John Franklin 564 

To a Mountain Oak 241 

BOLINGBROKE, LORD. 

True Patriot, The 351 

BON^Ul, HORATIUS. 

Beyond the Hills 820 

How to Live 779 

How to Learn 780 

Land of Which I Dream .... 808 
BONNEY, C. C. 

Great Lawjer, A 776 

(xv) 



XVI. 



INDEX OF AUTHOES. 



PAGE 

BOTmDIXXOJf, FRANCIS VT. 

Light 861 

BOWLES, "WILLLUI LISLE. 

Sonnet on the Kiver Rhine . . . 256 
BOWHIXG, SIR JOHN. 

Joys of Home 84 

BRAIX-UJD, JOHN GARDINER 
C.\XK1NS. 

I Saw Two Clouds at Moining . 690 

Sea-Bird's Song 815 

BR.VNCH, ]NLVRY BOLLES. 

My Little Brook 293 

BRECKENRIDGE, HUGH HEXRY. 

Revolutionary Sermon .... 328 
BRENNAN, JOSEPH. 

Come to jle, Dearest 130 

BRETON, NICHOK.S.S. 

Phillis the Fair • . 129 

BRONTE, CHARLOTTE. 

Life 677 

BROOKS, PHILLIPS. 

Ends of Life, The ..... 785 

Lincoln, the Shepherd of the 

Peoijle 571 

BROOMELL, H. P. H. 

Lawyer's luvocation to Spring . 605 

BRO"^^'N, HENRY ARJIITT. 

Centennial Oration 343 

Our CountiT 349 

Valley Forge .330 

BROWN, ■niLLLVM GOLDSMITH. 
Hills were Made for Freedom 

(ti'oni Vermont) 877 

Hundred Years to Come .... 653 
Mother, Home, Heaven .... 695 
Waiting 696 

BROWNE, CILVRLES F. (^Vktejius 
AVakd). 
Woman's Rights 607 

BROWNE, FR.VNCIS F. 
Henry Wad^i\^•orth Longfellow . 579 
Under the Blue 119 

BROWNE, WTLLLUI. 
Squirrel-Hunt, The 188 

broavnt;ll, henry howard. 

Bay-Fight, The 427 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BAR- 
RETT. 

How Do I Love Thee 98 

Lady's "Yes," The 842 

Sleep 728 

Three Kisses 113 

BRO'\A'NTN(;, ROBERT. 

Flowers Name, The .... 246 
How They Brought the Good 

News from Ghent to Aix . . 495 

Incident of the French Camp . 404 

BRY.VNT, WILLL\3I CULLEN. 

Ble.ssedAreThey Til at Mourn . 799 

Death of the Flowers .... 717 

Evening Wind 263 

Flood of Years 516 

Forest Hvniu 151 

Future Life 798 

June 655 

March 209 

My Heart and I 715 

OFairest of the Rural Maids . . 106 

Our Countrv's Call 368 

Planting the Apple-Trce ... 204 

Robert of Lincoln 300 

Song of Marion's Men .... 327 

Thanatopsis 643 

To a Water-Fowl 184 

AVaiting by the Gate 707 

BEYDGES, SIR SAJIUEL EGER- 
T(JN. 
Echo and Silence 679 

BUNGAY, GEORGE AV. 

A'egetable Convention, A . . . 621 
BURKE, EDAH-ND. 
Marie Antoinette, Queen of 
France (from Reflections on the 
Revolution in France .... 5(i5 
BURLEIGH, LORD. 
Ou the Education of a Familv . 791 



PAGE 

BLTRLEIGH. W. H. 

Song of the Mowers 288 

Summer AVoods 303 

You and I 129 

BURROUGHS, JOHN. 

AVaiting S70 

BURNS, ROBERT. 

Absence 105 

Ae Fond Kiss Before We Part . 99 

Afton AVater 144 

Auld Lang Syne 691 

Banks o' Doou 741 

Bannockburn 3BS 

Bonnie Banks of Aj-r 355 

Bonnie Jlaiy 110 

Coming Through the Rye . . . 105 

Cotter's Saturday Night .... 33 

Day Returns, Mv Bosom Burns . 147 

For A' That and A' That . ... 775 

Green Grow the Rashes O ! . . . 145 

Highland Mary 756 

1 Love My Jean • 145 

John Anderson, Mv Jo .... 86 

Man was JIade to Mourn .... 724 

Man' Morison 95 

My Heart 's in the Highlands . . 8:36 

My Luve 's Like a Red, Red Rose 112 

My Wife 's a AVinsome Wee Thing 96 

O, Saw Ye Bonnie Lesley . . . 142 

Tam O'Shanter 469 

To a Louse 599 

To a Mountain Daisy 229 

To Alary in Heaven 744 

BUSHNELL, LOUISA. 

Noon in Midsumnter 460 

BUTLER, SAAIUEL. 

Barn Owl, The (from Hudihras) . 171 
Religion of Hudibras, Tlie (from 

Hudihras) 599 

BYROM, JOHN. 

Pastoral, A 136 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL, 
LORD. 
Calm and Stoi-m on Lake Leman 

(from Childe Harold) .... 248 
Coliseum by Moonlight (fi-om 

Manfred) 546 

Destruction of Sennacherib . . 479 
Eternal Spirit of the Chainless 

JI in d (from Prisoner of Chillon) 367 
Fair Greece! Sad Relic of De- 
parted Worth (from Childe 

Harold) 547 

Fall of Greece (from The Giaour) 357 

First Love (from Don Juan) . . 94 
Freedom's True Heroes (from 

Childe Harold) 357 

Imaginative Svmpathv with Na- 
ture (from" CAi?rfe /?aro?rf) . . 251 
Isles of Greece (from i>on yuan) . 369 
Night (from Childe Harold) . . . 15S 
Orient, The (from The Bride of 

Abydos 545 

Poet's Solitude (from Childe 

Harold) 272 

Rhine, The (from C7(«(feJ7nroW . 240 

Sea, The (from Cliilde Harold) . 161 

She AValks in Beauty 134 

Ship^^1•eck, The (from Don Juan 515 
Solitude of the Sea (fiom Childe 

Harold) 238 

Stars (from Childe Harold) . . . 253 

To Thomas Moore 568 

Unreturning Brave, The (from 

Childe Harold) 389 

AA'aterloo (from Childe Harold) . 388 

AVhen We Two Parted 720 



C.i^rPBELL, THOALS.S. 

Battle of the Baltic 

Downfall of Poland (from Pleas- 
ures of Hope 

Exile of Erin 

Hallowed Ground 

Holienlindcn 

Hope (from Pleasures of Hope) 

Lord Ullins Daughter 

Men of England 

Rainbow, The 

Soldier's Dream, The 

Ye Mariners of England . . . . 
CAREY, HENRY. 

English National Anthem . . . 

Sally in our Alley 



378 

367 
727 
361 
406 
663 
525 
355 
268 
865 
377 



317 
606 



PAGB 

CARLETON, AA^LL M. 

Betsy and I Are Out 492 

Betsy Destrovs the Papers . . . 493 
Over the HiUto the Poor-House . 740 
New Chui-ch Organ, The .... 633 

CAKLYLE, THOAIAS. 

Book of Job, The • . 696 

Death of Marie Antoinette (from 

The French Revolution) . . . 566 

Earthly Influence 790 

Heard are the Aoices 785 

Labor and Poverty (from Sartor 

Resartus) 789 

To-day 709 

ACRY, ALICE. 

Dying Hymn 809 

Pictures of Memor\' 650 

Robbing the Nest (ironi An Order 

for a Picture) 509 

CARY, PHCEBE 

Homestead, The 278 

Lovers, The 614 

Nearer Home 815 

CH-U?LES, ELIZ.U3ETH 1{. 
Cross, Tlie 763 

CHATTERTON, THOiLVS. 
My Lo^•e is Dead 747 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 
Daisy, The (from Legend of Good 

Women) 871 

GIBBER, COLLEY. 
Blind Boy, The 714 

CLARE, JOHN. 

Summer AVoods 189 

Thi-ush's Nest, The 192 

CLARK, J G. 
Mountains of Life, The .... 803 

CLARK, AVILLIS GAAXORD. 
"They that Seek Me Earlv Shall 

Find Me" " ... 807 

CI^VRIilE, . 

Aillage Boy, The 304 

CLEMENS, SAMUEL C. (AIakk 

TWAIX). 

Curing a Cold 625 

Editing an Agi-icultural Paper . 601 

CLIA'E, FRANK. 
AVords and Their Uses 587 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 
Green Fields of England .... 367 
Say Not the Struggle Naught 

Availeth 780 

Sti-eam, The 710 

COBB, henra: n. 
Father, Take my Hand .... 815 

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. 
November 259 

COLERIDGE, SAJIUEL TAYLOR. 

Ancient Mariner, The 440 

Answer to a Child's Question . . 701 
Estrangement (from Christabel) , 709 
HjTiin Before Suiuise in the A" ale 

of Chamouni . • 169 

Knight's Tomb, The 558 

Nightingale, The 1.54 

To a A'oung Ass 213 

COLESAVORTHY, 

Little Words in Kindness Spoken 675 

COLFAX, SCHUAXER. 
Home Instruction 82 

COLLINS, MORTIMER. 
Two AVorlds 810 

COLLINS, WILLLVM. 
How Sleep the Brave 339 

COLLA'ER, ROBERT. 
Growing Aged Together . . • . 49 
Home Shadows 69 

COLALVN, GEORGE, THE YOUNGER. 
Gluggity Glug 589 

COLTON, ♦ 

Main Tmek, or a Leap for Life . 450 

CONSTABLE, HENRY. 
Pain of 'Love 109 

CONAVAA', D. 
To.the Turtle-Dove 180 

COOK, ELIZA. 

Harvest Song 298 

Old Artu-Chair 724 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XVll 



I'AGK 

COOKE, JOiry ESTEX. 

May 659 

COOKE, PHILIP PEXDLETOX. 

Florence Vaiie T.^S 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY. 

Two Villages "13 

COOLBRITH, IXA D. 

AVhen the Grass Shall Cover Me . "-28 

COOPER, MISS. 

Autumn 210 

CORP.ETT, jnSS. 

■\Ve '11 Go to Sea no More . . . . 486 

COR'WIX, THOMAS. 

Unjust Xational Acquisitions . . 362 

COURIER, PAUL LOUIS. 

Xight o£ Terror, A 622 

COWPER, WILLLiJVI. 

Boadicea 3,52 

Diverting History of Joliu Gilpin 585 

Dog ana the Water-Lily .... 20:i 

Love of Liberty (from The Task) 366 

Xightingale and Glow-Worni . . 633 

On a Goldfinch 190 

On the Receipt of my Mother's 

Picture 719 

RusticBridge.The (from The Task) 466 

Squirrel, The (from The Task) . 191 
Town and Country (from The 

Task) -278 

Winter (from Tiie Task) .... 245 
Winter Evening at Home (from 

The Task) a5 

Winter Morning (from The Task) 218 

CRABBE, GEORGE. 

Sea in Calm and Storm .... 260 

CR \IK, DIXAH jMARIA MULOCK. 

Her Likeness 99 

In Our Boat 96 

Xow and Afterwards 739 

Philip my King 143 

CRA^VEORD, JUXIA. 
We Parted in Silence 130 

CROSS, M.VRIAX EVANS LEWES 
(George Eliot). 
Day is Dying (from The Spanish 

'Gypsy) 215 

O May I Join the Choir Invisible 847 

CU^XIXGHiysi, AXLjVN. 
It's Hame and It's Hanie .... 372 
Poet's Bridal-Day Song .... 140 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIA3I 
Egyptian Serenade 687 

CUSHING, CjNXEB. 
Xew England 336 

CUTTER, GEORGE W. 
E Pluribus Unum. 347 

DANA, RICHARD HEXTIY 

Immortality (from The Husband's 

and Wife's Grave) 804 

Little Beach-Bird, The .... 235 
DANIEL, SAMUEL. 

Early Love 98 

Love is a Sickness 128 

DARWIX, ERASMUS. 

Loves of the Plants 221 

DA-STIS, TH05LVS. 

Fontenoy 404 

Welcome, The ];« 

DeQUIXCET, THOMAS. 

Joan of Arc 561 

DeVERE, SIR AUBREY. 

Columbus .558 

Sad is Our Youth, for it is Ever 

Going 742 

DICKEXS, CHARLES. 
Death of Little Xell (from The Old 

Curiosity Shop) 738 

Impressions of Xiagara (from 

American Notes) 474 

Ivy Green, The 193 

Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma (from 

The Pickwick Papers) .... 611 
DIMOXD, WILLIAM. 

Mariner's Dream, Tlie 846 

DOAXE, GEORGE W. 
Gentleman, The 774 



PAGE 
DOBELL, SYDXEY. 
"How's My Boy?" S76 

DOBSOX", AUSTIN. 

Angelus Song 733 

Cradle, The 759 

DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 

Divine Abode, The 818 

DODGE, MARY E. 

Blossom-Time 281 

DODGE, MARY MAJPES. 

Two Mysteries 7.32 

DODSLEY, ROBERT. 

True Woman, A 781 

DOLLIVER, CLARA G. 

Xo Baby in the House 62 

DOMETT, ALFRED. 

Christmas Hymn 878 

DOUDXEY, SARAH. 

Lesson of the Water-Mill . . . 6.52 
DOUGLAS OF FIXGLAXD. 

Annie Laurie Ill 

DOUGLASS, j\L\RIOX. 

Two Pictures 284 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAX. 

American Flag, The 316 

DRAYTOX, anCHAEL. 
Ballad of Agincourt, The • . . 376 
Parting 127 

DRUJIJIOXD, WILLIAJI. 

Praise of a Solitary Life .... 282 
To a Nightingale 221 

DRYDEN, JOHN. 

Death of Old Age (from (Edipus) 879 
DUFFERIN, LADY. 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 722 

DUFFY, SIR CHARLES GAVAX. 
Patriot's Bride, The 123 

DUG ANNE, AUGUSTINE J. H. 
Bethel 416 

DURIVAGE, FRAXCIS A. 
Cavalry Charge, The 425 

DWIGHT, TIMOTHY. 
Columbia 333 

DYER, JOHN. 

Shepherd, The 165 

DYER, SIR EDWARD. 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is . . 786 

LAST]\L\.X, CHARLES GAMAGE. 

Dirge 745 

Farmer Sat in his Easy Chair . . 83 

Snow-storm, The 482 

ELLIOT, EBEXEZER. 

Burns 567 

Pilgrim Fathers 320 

Sunday in the Fields 280 

EMERSOX, RALPH WALDO. 

Coming Back 451 

Friendship 14S 

Hymn 32G 

Love 100 

EilJIET, ROBERT. 

Emmet's Vindication 350 

EXGLISII, THOMAS DUXX. 

Battle of the Co wpens 411 

Ben Bolt 'tm 

Charge by the Ford 425 

EVERETT, EDWARD. 

Farming 283 

Galileo .5.59 

Indian Chief, The 467 

jMorning 160 

Xight 193 

Sufferings and Destiny of the Pil- 
grims 319 

Wonders of Astronomy .... 230 

FALCOXER, WILLIAM. 

Wrecked Ship, The (from The 

Shipwreck) ........ 487 

FAWCETT, EDG;VR. 
Bird of Passage 123 

FIELDING, HEXRY. 
A-tlunling \Ve AVill Go .... 876 



TAGE 

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. 
In a Strange Land ...... 74 

Xantucket Skipper, The .... .588 

Tempest, The 480 

Words to Boj-s 85 

FINCH, FRAX^CIS JHLES 

Blue and the Gray 768 

Xathan Hale 331 

FINLEY, JOHN. 
Bachelor's Hall 607 

FLAGG, WILSON. 
O'Lincoln Family 238 

FLETCHER, GILES. 
Dying Stag, The 193 

FORRESTER, ALFRED A. (Alfred 
Crowquill). 
To my Nose 627 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLIXS. 
My Old Kentuck\' Home .... 73 
OldFoUiS atHoine 70 

FRAXKLIX, BEXJAMIX. 
Industry (from Poor Pichard's 

Almanac) 792 

FREXEAU, PHILIP. 
May to April 270 

FUELER, 5XARGARET. 
On Leaving the West 554 

GAGE, FRANCES DAXA. 

Home Picture, A 76 

Housekeeper's Soliloquy . . . 595 

GALLAGHER, WTELIAM D. 

Harvest Hymn 294 

Laborer, The 772 

Lines 675 

On the Bants of the Tennessee . 301 

GARFIELD, JAMES ABRAM. 
Source of Party Wisdom (.from 

Speech at Chicago Convention) 366 

GARRICK, D.VVID. 

Dr. Hiirs Farce 610 

Hearts of Oak ;354 

GAY, JOHX. 
Song 142 

GILBERT, WILLLV3I S. 

Captain Reece 616 

Yam of the " Nancy Bell " . . . 617 

GILDER, RICHARD WATSOX. 
Dawn (from The Neio Day) . . . 171 
O Sweet Wild Roses that Bud and 

Blow 860 

GOLDSfflTH, OLIVER. 
Better Oountrj', The (from The 

Traveler) 369 

Deserted Village, The .538 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 628 
Outcast, The (from A City Xight 

Piece) 767 

GOODALE, DORA READ. 
April! April! Are You Here? . . 271 
Ripe Grain bl5 

GOODALE, ELAIXE. 
Ashes of Roses 688 

GOUGH, JOHX B. 

Pilot, The 487 

Power of Habit 477 

GK.S.HAME, JAMES. 
Blind Man, The (from An Autumn 

Sabbath Walk) 757 

GRAY, DA\^D. 
Wintry Weather 219 

GRAY, THOMAS. 

Elegy Written in a Country 

Churchyard 637 

Ode on a Distant Prospect (rf Eton 
College 684 

Spring 217 

GREEXE, ALBERT GOP.TOX. 

Old Grimes 613 

GRIFFIX, GERALD. 

Song 108 

GRISWOLD, IIATTIL T^'Xli. 

Three Kisses 746 

Under the Daisies 727 

HALE, IMRS S. J. 
It Snows 266 



XVlll 



IXDEX OF AUTHOES. 



I'AGE 

HAL AJI, AETHUn HEXHT. 

ToMyMotlK'i- S65 

HALLECK. FITZ-GREEXE. 

Josepli Kodniau Drake .... 6S0 

Marco Bozzaiis 364 

H-VLL, EUGEXE J. 

House on the Jlill, The .... 310 

HALL, XE"miAX. 

Dignity ot Labor 784 

H-U^PIXE, CHARLES GR-VHAM 
(Miles O'Keillv). 

Gettvsburfj Monument .... 3-tl 

Janette ;:; Hair 124 

Song of the Soldiers 4:34 

HAXXAFORD, E. 

Catching Shadows 80 

Dead in Xovemher 762 

H^VRRIS, JOEL CHANDLER. 

Negro Revival Hymn S2S 

HARTE, BRET. 

Dickens in Camp 569 

Greyport Legend 4S4 

Grizzly 247 

"How Are You, Sanitary?" . . . 417 

I Was "With Grant 608 

Jolin Burns of Gettj'sburg . . . 424 
Plain Lang-uage from Truthful 

James 626 

Society upon the Stanislaus . . 604 

HiVVEN, BISHOP GILBERT. 

My Mother's Bible 75 

HAYERGAL, FR^iNCES RIDLEY. 

My Work 792 

H.\"SYTHORNE, NATHANIEL. 

Rill from the Town Pump, A . . 444 

Sabbatli Morning 461 

H^\Y, JOHN. 

River, The 073 

HAYNE, PAUL HAJNHLTON. 

By tlie Autumn Sea 699 

Farmer's Wife, The 298 

Forest Pictures 242 

Harvest Time 262 

In Harbor 811 

Sonnet 664 

H.Yi'XE, ROBERT YOXTSG. 

.- outh Carolina 335 

HEBER, REGINALD 

If Tliou Wert by My Side ... 109 

Stream of Life, The 480 

HELPS, ARTHUR. 

True Hospitality 77 

HEM.iNS, FELICIA DOROTHEA. 

Breathings of Spring 166 

Casabianca 4S3 

Child's First Grief, The .... 762 

Come to the Sunset Tree .... 292 

EveningPrayer at a Girl's Scliool 65; 

Gra\'es of a Household .... 59 

Hour of Death 737 

Hymn of tlie Mountaineers . . 3.56 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . 321 

HEN'RY, PATRICK. 

Liberty or Death 324 

HERBERT, GEORGE. 

Elixir, Tlie 78S 

Yertue '. . . 871 

HERRICK, ROBERT. 

Country Life 275 

Julia 131 

Violets 184 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 

Go, Pretty Birds 139 

I'ack Clouds Away 107 

HIGGINSOX, THOMAS AVENT- 
WOUTH. 

Thirteen Colonies, The .... 321 

HOFFMAN, CH^VRLES FENXO. 

Monterey 414 

HOGG, JAMES. 

Love is Like a Dizziness .... 605 

Sky-Lark, Tlie ISO 

AVhen the Kye Conies Hame . . 123 

HOLDEN, JOSIAH W. 

Cape Hatteras 548 



PAGE 

HOLLANT), .JOSIAH GILBERT. 

Cradle Song (from Bitter- Stceet) . 40 

Daniel Gray 874 

Gradatim ."...• 779 

HOLMS'^, OLI\'ER WENDELL. 

Aunt Tabitha 848 

Kallad of the Oystennan . . . 603 
College Regatta (from The School- 
Boy) 858 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker 

Hill Battle 407 

Height of the Ridiculous . . . 627 

Last Leaf, The 843 

New England .-chool, The (from 

The Schoo'-B'^y) 479 

Old Home, The (ivmnThe School- 

Boy) 477 

"Old Ironsides" 465 

Ploughman, The 284 

Yoiceless, Tlic 752 

Wonderful "One- Hoss Shay " . . 590 

HOME, JOHN. 

Norval 860 

HOOD, THOMAS. 

Bridge of .'^iglls 719 

Child Embra'ciugHis Mother, To a 141 

Death -Bed, The 737 

Flowers 263 

I Remember, I l.emcmber . . . 644 

Lost Heir, The 609 

No ! 619 

Song of the Shirt 728 

Truth in Parenthesis 619 

HOPE, JAMES BARKON. 

Three Summer Studies .... 249 

HOPKINS, JANE ELLIS. 

Children's Bed-Time 88 

HOPKINSON, JOSEPH. 

Hail Columbia 316 

HOWE, JULIA "WARD 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic . 414 

HOWELL ■«, AYILLIAJI DEAN. 

Mysteries, Tlie 879 

HOA\aTT, MA..Y. 

Broom, Tlie 233 

Spider and the Fly 592 

HOWITT, WILLIAM. 

Departure of tlie Swallow ... 702 

June Day 179 

Wind in a Frolic 446 

Woodnote 195 

HOWLAND, MAY WOOLSEY. 

Rest 805 

HOYT, RALPH. 

Old 748 

Snow 237 

HUGHES, JOHN. 

Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown 624 

HL^'T, LEIGH. 

Abou Ben Adhem S65 

Glove and the Lions 520 

Jenny Kissed Me 875 

INGELOW, JEAX. 

Better Wa>-, The (from JJonors) . 804 
Brides of Enderby; or, the High 

Tide (1571) 522 

Like a Laverock in the Lift . . 54 

Love at First Sight 137 

Songs of Seven 43 

INGERSOLL, ROBERT G. 

Dream of War, A 435 

Fathers of the Republic .... 322 

Meaning of Our Flag 346 

IRVINE, J. P. 

Summer Drought 239 

IRAING, WASHINGTON. 

Bobolink, The 163 

Rainy Sunday at a Country Inn . 471 

SoiTow for the Dead 686 

Wife, The 56 

JACKSON, HELEN STSST (H H.) 

Courteous Mother, A .... . 71 

MyLegacv 802 

Way to bing, The 676 

JEFFERSON, THOMAS. 

Washington 570 



l'.A.GK 

JENNER, DR. ED"WAED. 
Signs of Rain • . . 254 

JERROLD, DOUGLAS. 
Mi-s. Caudle's Lecture on Shirt 

Buttons 593 

JILLSOX, CLARK. 

RllJ^rle3 of the Months .... S49 
JOHNSOX, SAMUEL. 

Charles XII. of Sweden (from The 

Vanity of Human Wishes) . . 56"2 
JONES, AMANDA T. 

Croquet .523 

We Twain 139 

JONES, SIR "WILLIAjr. 

What Constitutes a State? . . . 373 

JONSON, BEN. 

Celebration of Charis 145 

Freedom in Dress (ironi E2ncccne, 

or the Silent Woman) .... 128 

Noble Nature, The t43 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare . 563 

SheiJherd's Love, The 141 

liEATS, JOHN. 
Joy Forever, A (from Endymion) 662 
Nature's Delights (from Nature 

and the Poets) 262 

KEBLE, JOHN'. 

Bereavement 755 

Children's Thankfulness .... 859 

ICEJIBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 

Faith 878 

KEY, FR.\.NCIS SCOTT. 

Star-Spaiigled Banner 315 

KINGSLEY, CILiRLES. 

Farewell 702 

Sands of Dee 718 

Three Fishers 7'25 

KIMBALL, IL\JJRIET McEWEN. 
Come With the Birds in the 

Spring 4.55 

KIXNEY, COATES. 
Rain on the Roof 68 

KNOWLES, J^UIES SHERIDiVX. 

William Tell Among the Moun- 
tains (from William Tell) . . 834 
KNOX, WILLLUI, 

Mortality 697 

L.VCOSTE, 5L\.RIE R. 

Somebody's Darling 731 

L^ilGIITON, ALBERT. 

Under the Lea^■es 24.5 

L.UIB, CILVRLES. 

Old Familiar Faces 714 

Origin of Roast Pig 596 

L.iAIB, 3LVRY. 

Choosing a Name 77 

L.VNDOR, W^\LTER SAVAGE. 

Children 83 

Mai'garet 117 

LANIER, SIDNEY. 

Battle of Lexington (from Psalm 
of the West) 32ft 

Evening Song 12G 

L^VNIER, SIDN"EY AND CLIF- 
FORD. 

Old Jim's Prayer 6:51 

LARCOM, LUCY'. 

Hannah Binding Shoes .... 763 
LATHROP, GEORGE P.UJSONS. 

Lily-Pond, The 146 

Song-Sparrow, The 268 

LAWRENCE, JONATILVN, Ju. 

Look Aloft S78 

LEIGHTON, ROBERT. 

Books 8S0 

LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY. 

Calm is the Night 6.58 

Hans Breitmahn's Party .... 629 
LESLIE, C-VROLINE. 

At Last 696. 

LEWES, GEORGE HENRY. 

Death of Gcethe 567 



INDEX OF AUTHOKS. 



XIX 



PAGE 

LIXCOLX, ABRzVHAM. 

Dedicution oi Gettysburg Ceme- 
tery 3-tl 

Second Inaugural Address . . . 84:0 
LINGARD, JOHN. 

Execution ol' Max-y, Queen of 

Scots 490 

LOGAN, JOHX. 

To the Cuckoo 251 

Yarrow Stream 537 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY AVADS- 
WOKTH. 

Bayard Taylor 578 

Bythe Fireside (from The Golden 

Milestone 40 

Children's Hour 42 

Cumberland, The 426 

Excelsior (i79 

Famine, The (fTom Hiawatha) . 510 

rootsteiJS of Angels 758 

God's Acre 873 

Light of Stars 783 

Little Children 83 

Moonlight on the Prairie (from 

Ecangeline) 485 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 577 

Paul lievere's Ride ...... 513 

Psalm of Life 778 

Reaper and the Flowers .... 759 

Resignation 752 

Scenery of the Mississippi (from 

Evangeline) 270 

Ship of State i,troin Building of the 

Ship) 351 

Skeleton in Aiinor 462 

Snow-Flakes 202 

Village Blacksmith 478 

Warden of the Cinque Ports . . .557 

Windmill, The 468 

LOA'ELACE, RICHjVRD. 

To Althea, from Prison .... 114 

LOVER, SjVjVIUEL. 

Four- Leaved Shamrock .... 212 

Low-Backed Car fil5 

Rory O'Moore 606 

JJOyTElAj, J^VJIES RUSSELL. 
June (from The Vision of Sir 

Launfal) 228 

To the Dandelion 226 

LUDLOW, FITZ HUGH. 

Too Late 603 

LUNT, GEORGE. 

Ha)-makers, The 287 

Pilgrim Song 320 

LYONS, J. G. 

Our Mother Tongue 8.55 

LY'TE, HENRY FR.1NCIS. 

Abide With Me S12 

LYTTON, EDAVARD BULWER 

When Stars are in the Quiet Skies 700 

LYTTON, ROBERT BULAVER. 

Anx Italiens 134 

Bird at Sunset 120 

LYLY, JOHN. 

Birds, The (fi'Om Alexander and 

Campaspe) 234 

Cupid and Campaspe 147 

JLVCAULAY", TH03LVS B.VBING- 
TON. 

Armada, The 380 

Battle of Ivry 403 

Horatius at the Bridge .... 397 

Naseby 379 

Tribute to a Mother 83 

MacCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. 

Ireland 3.58 

Summer Longings 302 

MjVCDONALD, GEORGE. 
Baby 77 

5L\CE, FRANCES LAUGHTON. 

Only Waiting , . '805 

MACIv^VY, CHARLES. 

Clear the Way 771 

Small Beginnings 672 

Tell Me, i'e Winged AVinds . . . 809 

MAHONY, FR.\NCIS (Fatheii 

PliOUT). 

Bells of Shandon 689 

Obsequies of David tlie Painter . 560 



701 
667 



P.VGE 
MANN, HORACE. 

Morality of Manuel's 788 

JLVRCH, D.VNIEL. 

No Sorrow There 813 

JLiRLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 

Passionate Shepherd to his Love 128 
MARSTON, JOHN. 

Day Breaking 175 

IVLVRTINEAU, HARBIET. 

True Love Ill 

JLVRVEL, jVNDREW. 

Nymph's Description of her 

Fawn • 162 

]\L\SSEY, GKR^^XD. 

O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear . 148 
McCLELLiVN, ISAAC. 

Death of Napoleon ....... 507 

McCREERY, J. L. 

There is no Death 798 

Mclean, kate seymour. 

Silent Land, The 802 

McJLVSTER, GUY HUJIPHREY. 

Carmen Bellicosum 406 

MEEK, ALEXiVNDER B. 

Balaklava 392 

MENTEATH, MRS. A. STUART. 

James Melville's Child .... 743 
MERRICK, J.\MES. 

Chameleon, The 600 

MILLER, JOAQUIN. 

Dreamers (fi'om Up the Nile) . . 

Hope ■ 

Overland Train, The (from JSy 
the Sundown Seas) 

Sierras, The (from J}y the Sun- 
down Seas) . . 

Tomb of Byron (from By the 

Sundown Seas) 

SHLLER, AVILLI^UI. 

Willie Winkie 

MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON 
(Lord Houghton). 

Brookside, Tlie 

MILTON, JOHN. 

Blindness 

Flowers 

Hail, Holy Light (from. Paradise 
Lost) 

Supremacy of Virtue,(fromC'ojKMS) 
MONTGOaiERY, JAMES. 

Battle of Alexandria 

Daisy, The 

Grave, The 

Nature's Magnificence (from The 
West Indies) 

Night 

Northern AVinter, A (from Green- 
land) . ... ... 

Our Own Country 

Parted I'riends 

Shipwrecked Sailors, The (from 
Greenland) 

Table Mountain, Cape of Good 
Hope ... 

A^oyage Round the AVorld . . . 
MOORE, CLEJIENT C. 

Visit from St. Nicholas .... 
MOORE, THOMAS 

jUas! How Light a Cause May 
Move (from Tlie Light of the 
Harem) 

Bendemeer's Stream 

Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies 

Coifie Rest in This Bosom . . 

Curse on the Traitor (from Lalla 
Rookh) 

Good Bye . . 

Harp That Once Through Tara's 
Halls 

Lake of the Dismal Swanrp . . 

Love's Young Dream 

Oft in the Stilly Night .... 

Pro Patria iAlori 

This World is all a Fleeting Show 

Those Evening Bells 

'Tis tlie Last Rose of Summer . 

Vale of 'Cashmere (from Light of 

the Harem) 

MORE, HANNAH. 

Two Weavers, The 



508 

202 

563 

48 

126 

871 
243 

216 

782 

375 
205 
832 

264 
646 

501 
315 
820 

504 

269 
550 



667 

668 

808 

96 



367 
104 

856 
734 

108 
697 
355 
813 
650 
662 

544 

654 



MORRIS, CHARLES. 

Toper's Apology, The . . . 
MORRIS, GEORGE P. 

I'm AYith A'ou Once Again . 

My Mother's Bible .... 

Woodman, Spare That Tree . 
JMORRIS, WILLIAM 

March 

MOSS, THOJLVS. 

Beggar, The 

MOULTON, LOUISA CILiNDLER 

Alone by the Bay 

If I Could Keep Her So . . . 

Old House, The 

MUHLENBERG, WM. AUGU.STUS 

I Would Not Live Alway . . 
MUNBY, ARTHUR J. 

Doris 

NAIRNE, -LADY CAROLINE. 

Here's to Them That are Gone . 

Land O' the Leal . . ... 

Rest is not Here 

NEjVLEY, JMARY E. 

When the Cows Come Homo 
NEWJLVN, JOHN HENRY. 

The Pillar of tlie Cloud .... 
NOEL, THOJL\S. 

Pauper's Drive, The 

NORTHRUP, B. G. 

Make Home-Life Beautiful . . 
NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH 
SARAH 

Bingen on the Rhine .... 

AVe Have Been Friends Together 

O'H.UitA, THEODORE. 

Bivouac of the Dead 

O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE. 

At Best 

Forever 

OSBORNE, SELLECK. 

Modest Wit, A 

OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT. 
Labor . 

OTIS, NEAVTON S. 
Childhood's Prayer 

PAGE, EMILY R. 

Old Canoe, The 

PALFREY, SARAH HABIMOND. 

Light-House, The 

PALMER, A. AV. 

Stonewall Jackson's Way . . . 
PALMER, AYILLlAiAI PITT. 

Smack in School, The .... 
PARDOE, JULIA. 

Beacon-Light, The 

PARKER, THEODORE. 

The Way, the Truth, and the Lile 
PATMORE, COVENTRY. 

Toys, The 

PAULDING, JAMES K. 

Evening Walk in Virginia . . . 
PAl-NE, JOHN HOAVARD. 

Home, Sweet Home 

PEjVBODY, S. H. 

Nightingale, The 

PEALE, REMBRANDT. 

Don't Be Sorrowful, Darling . . 
PENN, AVILLLV5I. 

Pride of Birth 

PERCIVAL, JAJIES GATES 

To Seneca Lake 

PERRY, NORA. 

After the Ball 

PHELPS, EGBERT. 

Life's Incongruities 

Sunbeams 

PHELPS, ELIZ.VBETH STUART. 

Fall of Pemberton Mill .... 
PHILIP, EARL OF CHESTER- 
FIELD. 

Good Breeding 



PAGE 

. 825 



371 
750 
671 



257 

726 



. 693 
. 62 
. 294 

817 

116 

825 
808 
801 

291 

816 

861 

39 



751 
692 



753 



698 
689 



593 



841 



483 
698 
422 
591 
872 
804 
670 
464 
70 
153 
131 
787 
194 
736 



664 

:os 



496 
87 



XX 



INDEX OF AUTHOES. 



PAGE 

PHILLIPS, CHAELES. 
Bonaparte 555 

PLVTT, DOX. 
Bloom Was on the Alder and the 
Tassel on tlie Corn .... 132 

PIATT, JOHN JjUIES. 

First Tryst 678 

To a Ciiild 66S 

PIATT, SiVLLIE M. B. 
Into t)ie World and Out ... 759 

PIEP.POXT, JOHX. 
Warren's Address 325 

PIKE, ALBERT. 

Buena Vista 867 

Every Year 852 

PITT, WILLL\3I. 
Sailor's Consolation, The ... 623 

POE, EDGAR ALLEX. 

Annabel Lee 744 

Bells, The • . . 830 

Raven, Tlie 8:56 

POLLOK, ROBERT. 
Byron (from Course of Time) . . 563 

POPE, ALEX.VXDER. 
Dying Christian to His Son], The S09 
Happy tlie Man Wliose Wish and 

Care .•507 

Universal Prayer 857 

PORTER, XOAII. 
Advice to Youny: Men 777 

POWERS, HORATIO XELSOX. 
Ahide witli us: lor it is Toward 

Evening 800 

Buins 51)0 

Chimnej' Swallows 678 

PREXTICE, GEORGE D. 

Better Workl, The 814 

Closing Year, The 531 

Heaven Our Home 810 

Name in the Sand K)4 

Our Childhood 734 

Progress of Liberty (from Flight 

of Years) 370 

Shall We Meet Again 800 

To an Absent Wife 113 

PROCTOR, ADELAIDE AXXE. 
WoTnan's Question, A 116 

PROCTOR, BRYAX WALLER 

(Bakrv Cor.XWALL). 

Life, A 735 

Sea in Calm, The 461 

PROCTOR, EDXA DE.VX. 
Take Heart 699 

PL^XSHOX, AATLLIAM MORLEY. 

Reunion in Heaven 806 

Trials a Test of Character . . . 778 

QUARLES, FRAXCIS. 
Wliat is Life? 058 

ILVLEIGH, SIR WALTER. 
Xymph's Rejily to the I'assionate 

Shephei-d 1-28 

ILVXDALL, JAMES R. 
My Maryland 414 

READ, tho:mas BrCH^\:X.\>.'. 

Brave at Home, The 746 

Closing Scene, The .'5:52 

Drifting 704 

Sheridan's Ride 421 

KEALF, RICH-VRD. 

Apocalypse .338 

Indirection 701 

Vale 581 

EEDDEX, LALTM C. (Howard 
Glysdox). 
Mazzini ,568 

REYXOLDS, .JOHX ILVaHLTOX. 
Think of Mo 688 

RICH, HIRAJL 
In tlie Sea 743 

RICHARDS, AVILLIAM C. 

Rosalie 731 

EICHTER, JEAX PAUI.. 

Two Roads, The 703 

EOP.ERTSOX, F. W. 

Rest of the Soul, The 817 

EOBERTSOX, WILLIAM. 

Discover>- of America (from His- 
tory of America) ...... 505 



PAGE 

ROGERS, SAJITTEL. 

Mother's Love, A 127 

Pleasures of jSIemoiy 660 

Rome (from Itabj) 546 

Venice (from Italy) 544 

Wish, A 277 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTIXA GEOR- 
GIXA. 

Milking Maid, The 118 

UpHiil 810 

ROSSETTI, DAXTE G.VBRIEL. 
Blessed Damozel, The 870 

ROUXD, W. M. F. 
Rule of Hospitalitj-, The .... 78 

KUSKIX, JOHX. 
Climbing Mount Alhano .... .524 
Old Water-Wheel, The .... 518 

RUSSELL, WILLIAM HOWARD, 

Battle of Balaklava 391 

Charge of the Light Brigade . . 389 

EY.VX, ABRA3I T. 
Conquered Banner, The .... 7.30 
"Follow Me" (from A Thought) . 818 

RYAX, RICHARD. 
O, Saw Ye the Lass 130 

Sj^.XGSTER, MARG^UIET E. M. 
Are the Children at Home ... 60 

SARGEXT, EPES. 
Life on the Ocean Wave .... 4.58 
Sunrise at Sea 267 

SAXE, JOHX G. 

Blind Men andthe Elepliant, The 591 

Declaration, The 6.i4 

I'm Growing Old 864 

KissMeSoftlv 119 

Puzzled Census Taker, The ... 631 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 

Evening 85S 

Flodden Field (from Marmion) . 378 
Harp of the Xorth (from Lady of 

the Lake) 3(U 

Lochinvar's Ride (from Marmion') 530 
l^ove of Country (from Lay of (he 

Last Minstrel) . 372 

Melrose Abbey (from Lay of the 

Last Minstrel) 547 

Scotland (from Lay of the Last 

Minstrel) Z'M 

Sunset at Xorham Castle (from 

Marmion) 225 

There is Mist on the Mountain, 
and Xight on the Vale (from 

Waverly) 838 

Time Rolls His Ceaseless Course 

{(Tom Lady of the Lake) . . . 700 
SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 
Absence (from Sonnets) .... 131 
Counsel to a Friend (from Hamlet) 880 
Duke of Gloster on his Own De- 
formity (from King Eichard 

III.) 708 

Hamlet's Soliloquy (from Hamlet) 709 
Hark! Hark! the Lark at Heav- 
en's Gate Sings (from Cymbe- 

line) 105 

Lark, The 247 

Mercy (from jJ/erc/ian<o/ T'enice) . 670 
Spring and Winter (from Love's 

Labour's Lost) 209 

True Love (from Sonnets) . . . 142 
Vicissitudes of Life (fi-om King 

Henry VTII.) 708 

SHAXn.EY. CHARLES DAWSOX. 

Civil War 417 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 

Cloud, Tlie 1.59 

Divinity of Poetry, The .... 051 
Eternal, The (from Adonais) . . 820 
I Arise from Dreams of Thee . . 112 

I Fear Thy Kisses 123 

Invocation to Xature (from Alas- 
tor) 269 

Love's Philosophy 104 

To a Skvlark 197 

With the Dead 716 

SHEXSTOXE, WILLIAM. 

School-Mistiess, Tlie 468 

SHEPPARD, CHARLES. 

Black Horse and his Rider, The . 410 
SHILLABER, B. P. (Mrs. Par- 
tington). 
My Childhood's Home 68 



PAGE 

SHIRLEY, JAjMES. 
Death the Leveler 864 

SIBLEY, CHARLES. 
Plaidie, The 871 

SIDXEY, SIR PHILIP. 
MyTrue-Love Hatli My Heait . 139 

SIM3IS, "^^^LLLiM GILMORH. 

First Day of Spring 214 

Grape-Vine Swiiig" 485 

Shaded Water 258 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE. 

Heath, The 200 

Swallow, The 201 

SMITH, HORACE. 
HjTnn to the Flowers 226 

SMITH, 5L\Y RILEY. 

If 730 

Tired Mothers 81 

SMITH, SEBA. 
Mother's Sacrifice, The . • . . 739 

SMITH, SYDXEY. 

Love of Country 3:16 

Mrs. Partington 019 

Want of Decision 775 

SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE. 
Independence (from Ode to Inde- 
pendence) 360 

Ode to Leven Water 233 

Tears of Scotland :5.54 

SOMER^^I,LE, WILLIAM. 
Hare, The 107 

SOULE, JOHX'^ B. L. 
AVooing 125 

SOUTHEY, CAROLIXE BOAVLES. 
Landing of the Primrose . . . 453 
Mariners Hymn ....... 799 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 

Battle of Blenheim 875 

Incheape Rock 547 

Library, The 609 

SPEXCER, WILLI.VM ROBERT. 

Too Late I Staved 645 

Wife, ChilcUen and Friends . . 140 

SPEXSER, EDMLTXD. 
Eternal Rest (from Tlie Fteric 

Queene) 816 

Ministry of Angels (from The 

Fcerie Queene) 814 

SPOFFORD, H.VRRIET PRESCOTT. 
Hereafter 816 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES. 

Family Meeting, The 90 

Winged AVorshiiDpers, The . . . 853 

ST.\>sTOX', HEXRY T. 
Moneyless Man, The 847 

STEDJLVN, EDMUXD CLAREX'CE. 
Cavalry Song (from Alice of Mon- 
mouth) 426 

Discoverer, The ....... 797 

Horace Greeley ....... 579 

John Brown of Osawatomic . . 575 
Kearney at Seven Pines .... 418 

On the Doorstep 93 

STEPHEN, JAMES. 
Trial of Richard Baxter .... 514 

STILL, JOHX. 
Jolly Good Ale and Old .... 620 

STODDARD, CILUJLES WARREX. 
Rhyme of Life 792 

STODDARD, RICHARD HEXRY. 

Countrv Life, The 306 

Dead, the 678 

Old Mill, The 282 

Pearls 1-20 

STOREY, JOSEPH. 
Indians, The 517 

STORY, WILLIAil WETMORE. 
Violet, The 248 

STOWE, H.MiRIET BEECHER. 

"Only a Year" 736 

Other World, The 814 

STREET, ALFRED B. 
Xight-Fall: A Picture 309 

SUCKLIXG, SIR JOHX. 
Bride, The (from A Ballad Upon 

a Wedding) 511 

Wliv so I'ale and AVan, Fond 

Lover 131 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXI 



PAGE 

SWAIN, CHARLES. 

What is Noble 772 

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. 

Kissing Her Hair . % 

SWING, DAVID. 

Garfield 574 

Purification of Love 121 

STMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON. 

Blessed is He 789 

T.\NNAHILL, ROBERT. 

Flower O' Dumbluue 113 

Midges Dance Aboon the Burn . 262 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. 

Friend's Greeting, A 581 

Give Me Back My Youth Again 

(from Goethe's Faust) .... 695 

Song of the Camp 39.5 

Story for a Child 76 

TAYXOR, BENJAMIN F. 

"Atlantic" 439 

Burning of Chicago 488 

Christmas Stockings (from The 

Child and the Star) 86 

Isle of Long Ago 662 

Massacre of Fort Dearborn . . 503 

Money Musk (from The Old Barn) 47.'5 

Old Village Choir 476 

TAYLOR, JANE. 

Philosopher's Scales, The ... 624 

TA"iXOR, TOM. 
Abraham Lincoln 572 

TENNYSON, ALFRED. 

Break, Break, Break 648 

Bugle-Song (from The Princess) . 649 
Charge of the Light Brigade . . 390 

Circumstance 665 

Come Into the Garden, Maud 

(from Maud) 114 

Death of the Old Year 666 

Defense of Lucknow ... . 395 
Departure, The (from The Bay- 
Dream) 94 

Eagle, The 223 

Enoch Arden's Childhood (from 

Enoch Arden) .527 

Locksley Hall 680 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of 

Wellington ....... 556 

Of Old Sat Freedom on the 

Heiglits 365 

O Swallow, Flying South (from 

The Princess) 117 

"Revenge"— A Ballad of the Fleet 382 
King Out, Wild Bells (from Jn 

Memoriam) 846 

Sei^aration (from /reit/emoriam) . 112 
Song of the I'.iook (from The 

Brook: an Idyl) 21.5 

Spring (from In Memoriam) . . 265 
Sweet and Low (.from The Prin- 
cess) 125 

Tears, Idle Tears (from The Prin- 
cess) 761 

To Victor Hugo 568 

THACKERAY', WILLIAM IMAIi^E- 
PEACE. 

Little Billee 630 

Mahogany Tree, The 89 

Rose Upon My Balcony (from 

Vanity Fair) 665 

THAXTER, CELIA. 
Song 659 

THOMAS, LORD VAUX. 
Of a Contented Mind 844 

THOMPSON, ED. PORTER. 
Aunt Silva Meets Y'oung Mas'r 

John 831 

0. S. Army's Commissary . . . 432 
Two Sonnets 645 

THOJfPSON, JAMES MAURICE. 
Heron, The 521 

THOJfPSON, JOHN R. 
Music in Camp 436 

THOMSON, JAjMES. 
Cornfield, The (from ^«<mtoto) . . 289 
Freedom of Nature (from Castle 

of Indolence) 248 

Hymn on the Seasons 1!55 

Rainbow, The (from Spring) . . 181 
Rule, Britannia! 317 



I'.VGJi 
THOREAU, HENRY DA\^D. 

In the Maine Woods 4.56 

Upon the Beach . ■ 685 

TILTON, THEODORE. 
My Creed 860 

TIMROD, HENRY. 

Decoration Day at Charleston . 766 
Spring in Carolina 246 

TROAVBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. 

Farm- Yard Song 297 

Summer 174 

Vagabonds, The 8.56 

TUCKER, ST. GEORGE. 
Days of My Youth 691 

VAUGHN, HENRY. 
World, The S33 

vt:nable, w. h. 

Old Mill, The 512 

VERY, JONES. 

Home and Heaven 801 

Nature . 154 

Our Soldiers' Graves 734 

AVind-Flower, The 185 

WAKEFIELD, NANCY PRIEST. 

Heaven 810 

Over the River 819 

W.VLKER, HENRY A. 
Joys of Memory 693 

WALLER, EDMUND. 

Eternal Home, The (from Verses 

Upon His Divine Poesy) . . . 817 

Girdle, A 142 

WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS. 

Spinning-Wheel Song 138 

WALTON, IZAAK. 

Angler's AVish, The 232 

WASHINGTON, GEORGE. 
Address to the American Troops 
Before the Battle of. Long Is- 
land— 1776 327 

WATSON, JAMES W. 
Beautiful Snow 852 

WATTS, ISAAC. 
Cradle Hynni 87 

AVEBSTER, DiVNIEL. 
Duty and Influence of Mothers . 41 

Liberty and Union 350 

South Carolina and Massachu- 
setts 334 

Survivors of the Battle of Bun- 
ker Hill 332 

AVEBSTER, JOHN. 
Honorable Employment .... 786 

WEIR, HARRISON. 
Christmas in the Woods .... 185 
Robin, The 207 

WHEELER, ELLA. 

Gethsemane 741 

Love is Enough 108 

WHITE, HENRY KIRIvE. 
Early Primrose, The 220 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 

Night and Death 853 

WHITMAN, AVALT. 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors . . 431 

O Captain! My Captain .... 879 
AVHITNEY, SIRS. A. D. T. 

Equinoctial 664 

AYHITTIER, ELIZABETH H. 

Dream of Argvle, The 839 

Meeting Waters, The 693 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 
Ballot-IJox, The (from The Eve 

of Election) 363 

Barbara Frietchie i23 

Barefoot Bov, The 304 

Bayard Taylor 578 

Ichabod 574 

Lost Occasion, The 575 

Maud MuUer 862 

Jly Psalm . . . . • 582 

Pumpkin, The 299 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 459 

WILDE, LADY (Speranza). 
A'oice of the Poor 726 



PAGE 

AVILDE, OSC.YR. 

England's Heroes .352 

licquiescat 757 

Serenade 120 

WILDE, RICILIRD HENRY. 
My Life is Like the Summer Rose 646 

AVILLIAMS, MARIE B. 

First Violet, The 182 

Out of the Plague -Stricken City 758 

AVILLIS, NATHANIEL PjVRKER. 

Maiden's Prayer 677 

Saturday Afternoon 465 

Spring is Here 182 

Towards Home (fi'om Lines on 

Leaving Europe) 675 

WTLLMOTT, AVIS. 
Last of Seven 752 

WILLSON, FORCEY'THE. 

At Night 668 

In State .345 

Old Sergeant, The 419 

WILSON, JOHN (Christopher 
North). 
Churchyard of the Village, The . 715 

Evening Cloud, The 480 

To a Wild Deer 199 

AVreck of the Ship, The (from Isle 

of Palms) 519 

AVINTER, AVILLIAM. 
Beside the Sea .670 

AVINTHROP, ROBERT C. 
National Monument to Washing- 
ton 337 

WINTON, MRS. J. M. 
Even-Tide 868 

AVIRT, AVILLIAM. 
Blind Preacher, The (from The 

British Spy) 526 

WOLCOTT, JOHN (Peter PINDAR). 

May-Day 220 

Old Shepherd's Dog, The . . . 829 
To a Fish 621 

WOLFE, CHARLES. 
Burial of Sir John Moore . . 559 

AA^OODWORTH, SAMUEL 
Old Oaken Bucket 55 

WOOLSEY, S^VRiiH (SuSAN COOL- 

IDGE). 

When 812 

WOOLSON, CONSTalNCE FENI- 
MORE. 

"I Too" 813 

WORDSWORTH, AVILLLiai. 

Character of the Happy Warrior 370 

Daffodils ... 2.55 

England 357 

Evening (from Sonnets) .... 168 
Fate of Poets ( from Resolution and 

Independence:) 759 

Fidelity 674 

Goody Blake and Hai-ry Gill . . 628 

Lucy Gray 481 

Ode on Immortality 795 

Ode to Duty 776 

Places of Worship 872 

Rainbow, The 164 

Ram Reflected in the AA''ater . . 187 
River Wye, The {ivora Lines Cojn- 
posed on Revisiting its Banks, 

July 13,1798) 530 

She Was a Phantom of Delight . 117 
Solace in Nature (from Tintern 

Abbey) 227 

To the Daisy 170 

A'aryi ng Impressions from Nature 

(from Tintern Abbey) ... 167 

AVe are Seven ........ 745 

World is Too.Much with Us (from 

Sonnets) 166 

Y'arrow Unvisited 535 

Y'arrow Visited 536 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 

Happy Life, A 783 

TEOALVNS, WILLIAM H. 

Farmer's Home, The 47 

YOUNG, EDWARD. 

Fortitude (tr(nn Night Thoughts) 854 

Night (from Night Thoughts) . . 173 
Procrastination (from Night 

Thoughts) 879 

Risen Christ, The (from Night 

Thoughts) 807 





^<r<^22S^o 



|HE history of books, when one comes to consider it curiously, goes back 
to the earliest achievements of the human race, the desire to perpetuate 
which led to their discovery. The record of these achievements was 
preserved by oral traditions, which were handed down from father to 
son for generations; afterwards by rude memorials, mounds of earth, 
barrows, pillars of stone, and the like; and finally by the means of 
written or engraved letters. History began with the creation of the 
alphabet. The oldest examples of literature extant are hymns and 
invocations to the deities, which the comparative mythologists tell us 
were personifications of the power of Nature. Coexistent with these 
were curt chronicles of a genealogical nature, and a body of unwritten history which sung 
itself into life among the peoples. Fragments of this history are from time to time 
discovered in the East, and deciphered by the skill of modei-n philologers ; but this 
balladry, for such it must have been, is forever lost. Who the poets before Homer 
were, we shall never know. Precisely when and where the art of writing was invented 
can never be certainly known, but, judging by what we know of the genesis of later 
discoveries, it was ready for the world when the world was ready for it. Its importance 
would at once be perceived by priests and kings, who would have been rqjore than human 
if they had not kept the practice of it in their own hands as long as they could. We 
must picture them to ourselves, therefore, as the first scribes; and conjecture, from the 
little that is left of it, what the bulk of their writing was — the edicts which the kings 
of old penned in their palaces in order to make their will known to the people, and the 
rituals which the priests of old penned in their temples in order that the people might 
worship the gods acceptably. The great museums of Europe" contain specimens of the 
literature of the ancient Akkadians and Egyptians, in the shape of baked tablets recovered 
from the ruins of Babylonish libraries, and rolls of papyrus wrested from their many- 



centuried hiding-places in Pharaonic pyramids. 



XXiv IXTKODUCTIOX. 

It is not easy for us moderns, to whom books are as common as the air ^ye breathe, 
to understand what ancient literature was in its creative periods, and through what 
centuries of mere oral existence it passed before it was established in the permanency of 
writing. The poetry which we call Komer's, and which man}' think is the poetrj^ of a 
period rather than of a man, was preserved for a long time, we are taught, only in the 
memory of the minstrels who recited it. What was there about it which impelled 
Pisistratus to command its transcription from the lips of these minstrels ? "Was it because 
he was impressed by its greatness, or because the populace was so enamored of it that its 
reduction to writing on their account seemed to him a politic thing? I dare say that a tyro 
in Greek scholarship would find no difficulty in answering these and other questions, which 
I, who pretend to no scholarship of any sort, cannot but put to m3'self when I take up 
Homer. There was a time, I think, when the Iliad and the Odj'ssey stood on the same 
footing as the balladry of Europe, in that they existed nowhere but in the memory of 
those whose delight, and, probably, livelihood, was attached to their recital, and who were 
in no sense literate, for letters were not then, except in the rituals and edicts and other 
records of priestcraft and statecraft. Think of the danger there was in the chance of the 
Homeric poems being lost, as kindred poems may have been, and of the inheritance 
of enjoyment which was bequeathed to man inalienably when the first complete copy 
thereof was committed to parchment, or papyrus, or whatever it was written upon ! 
AYhat became of the copy of Homer which was made for Alexander, which he carried 
with him in a casket, through all his travels and his battles, and upon which, as he laid it 
away under his pillow in the late night and early morning, he used to dream of glory? 
It is pleasant to remember that the greatest of poets was a favorite with the greatest 
of soldiers. 

Published, in a large sense, the literature of antiquity was not. It was confined 
to manuscript, every page, every line, every letter of which was copied by scribes 
from what may be called the original copy, which we may assume in most cases to 
have been the author's copy. The length of time expended in making a copy of a 
long work like the Iliad would necessarily confine its circulation to those who were 
blessed with wealth as well as taste. Xo poor man could hope to own books. They 
were for the favored few. Even kings, so late as the ^liddle Ages, were sometimes 
obliged to borrow them from their monastic possessors, and to deposit weight}' pledges 
for their safe return. Vie moderns do not value our books as the ancients valued 
theirs, nor do we read them with their sincerity and reflection. They did not read for 
recreation merely, but for instruction. It was a serious business, to which they gave 
their minds as completely as the writers themselves had given their minds ; for they 
felt, like Carlyle, that of all things which man can do or make here below, by far the 
most momentous, wonderful, and worthy are the things we call books. The writers of 



INTRODUCTION. XXV 

antiquity were unceasing in their praise of books. They believed, with Cicero, that they 
are the food of youth ; the delight of old age ; the ornament of prosperity ; the refuge 
and comfort of adversity ; a delight at home and hindrance abroad ; companions by 
night, in traveling, in the country. The same belief was held some fourteen hundred 
years later by Richard DeBury, Bishop of Durham, who wrote of them like an ancient: 
"Books are delightful when prosperity happily smiles; when adversity threatens they 
are inseparable comforters. They give strength to human compacts, nor are grave 
opinions brought forAvard without books. Arts and sciences, the benefits of which no 
mind can calculate, depend upon books." And elsewhere in the same treatise 
(Philobiblion) this old book-lover becomes poetical: "You, O Books, are the golden 
vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with which the missiles of the 
most wicked are destroyed ; fruitful olives, vines of Engaddi, fig-trees knowing no 
sterility; burning lamps to be ever held in the hand." Luther declares that every great 
book is an action ; and Milton, that a good book is the precious life-blood of a master- 
spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond, "As good almost 
kill a man as a good book ; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, Grod's image ; 
but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it 
were in the eye." That Chaucer was a lover of books is certain, I think, from the 
heartiness with which he describes the poor clerk of Oxford : 

' For him was lever ban at his heddes hed 
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, 
Of Aristotle, and bis pbilosopbie, 
Than robes ricbe, or fidel, or sautrie. 
But all be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet badde he but litel gold in cofre, 
But all that he might of his frendes bent, 
On bokes and on lerniug he it spente, 
And verily gan for the soules praie 
Of hem that yave him wherwith to scolaie. 
Of studie toke he moste cure and hede." 

That Shakespeare also loved books I devoutly believe, and could no doubt prove 
at great length if it were necessary. He has certainly drawn a book-lover in Prospero, 
(whom we are instructed to accept as a portrait of himself), the loss of whose 
dukedom was occasioned by his devotion to his books — a devotion of which he did not 
repent, for he tells his daughter that he still prizes above his dukedom the volumes 
that he was allowed to carry with him to the island. 

I believe Shakespeare to have been a great reader, though not so great a reader 
as Milton, and Bacon, and Ben Jonson, who were at all times bookish writers. He 
was not learned in the sense that they were, nor did he need to be, so largely was the 
knowledge which is more than learning writ in the book and volume of his brain. No 



XXVI IXTEODUCTIOX. 

great writer ever depended so little upon books as Shakespeare, and no great writer was 
ever so modest as he. It was with true humility that he wrote, 

'• In nature's infinite book of secrecj' 
A little I can read." 

There are many things about Shakespeare which I cannot understand when I examine 
his woi'ks in connection with the accepted accounts of his life. I cannot understand, 
for example, why he was so indifferent to the fate of his plays, the excellence of 
which he could not but have known; nor can I understand why he imparted that 
excellence to them. If he wrote for the stage, merely, why did he expend so much 
more poetry than was necessary for success on the stage ? What spirit, what demon, what 
divine fury possessed this young man from Stratford to write so much better than 
Greene, and Marlowe, and the rest? Why did he create majestic marble statues, when 
poor clay images would have served as well? I cannot answer these questions, except 
by saying that he was carried out of himself in spite of himself, and that the power 
Avhich we call Nature entered into him and wrote with his pen. 

The little that we know about Shakespeare does not include any definite knowledge 
of the man himself. We have to imagine what he was like, and the life that he led. 
We fancy him, perhaps, in early manhood, when he was patronized by my Lord 
Southampton, who treated him with condescending kindness, and for whom, no doubt, 
he wrote love-sonnets when that sort of ware was wanted; and we include in the 
picture some of his Lordship's companions, courtiers, gallants and roystering blades — 
the race of butterflies who in the next century were christened wits. We fancy him 
at the Mermaid Tavern, grappling with Jonson in those combats of which old Fuller 
tells us, and setting the table on a roar with his flashes of merriment, his sallies of 
extravagant humor — the horse-play of the place and the time. Or, we fancy him among 
his fellows at the Globe, now chatting familiarly with them behind the scenes, and 
now strutting out his heroic hour on the stage. He was Willy to them, a player like 
themselves. They met him daily at the theatre, they walked the streets with him, they 
laughed and talked, they ate, and drank, and shook hands with him. Of course, they 
knew him. I hardly think so, my masters; for while I admit that you were acquainted 
with Will Shakespeare, the player, I deny that you were acquainted with the poet 
Shakespeare. You could not comprehend him. The age did not comprehend him ; he is 
not comprehended yet. We have no difiiculty in imagining Shakespeare at the theatre, 
the tavern, or in the palace of Southampton, but we cannot imagine him — at least I 
cannot imagine him — in his chamber writing his great tragedies. That they did not 
exist once, but were created by him, is inconceivable. How did he create them — by 
what intellectual process known to and practiced by other writers? In what experience, 
or speculation, did he find Hamlet, Othello, Lear — in what melancholy, what distrust, 



INTEODUCTION. XXVll 

what madness did they come to him, clearly and in their full stature at first, or doubtfully 
and dwarfed of their fair proportions? Were they critical or instinctive creations, or both? 
No man is able to say with certainty ; even Shakespeare himself might not have been 
able to say. All that we know is, that they were not, and that they are, and are 
imperishable. 

The thought that all of Shakespeare was once a manuscript only, is true of every book 
in the world, and if we remembered it oftener than we do, we should be more impressed 
than we are with our indebtedness to authors. We are indebted to them for every moment 
they spend in writing for us, indebted for their manual labor, which is vast, and more 
deeply indebted for their intellectual labor, which is vaster still, in that it demands the 
exercise of all their faculties in the highest state of activity. There never was a book 
worth reading, unless the writer put himself into it, and put himself into it at his best and 
greatest, with all his knowledge, all his experience, all his manhood. To do less than 
this is merely to multiply words and waste paper ; but to do this is a great achievement, 
since it gives pleasure to thousands, sweetens their lives, strengthens their souls, and adds 
to the intellectual inheritance of the race for centuries to come. The world Could better 
have spared its famous historic characters — much better have spared all its kings and 
captains and statesmen — than a great writer like Shakespeare. It is they who starve and 
drain ; it is he who supplies and enriches the life-blood of mankind. Nothing lives longer 
than great writers; for their books, as Plato says, are immortal sons that deify 
their sires. 

What books have been to the writers of England, many of them have gratefully 
recorded in their writings. My Lord Verulam declares of them : " They are true friends 
that will neither flatter nor dissemble ; be you but true to yourself, applying that which 
they teach unto the party aggrieved, and you shall need no other comfort nor counsel." 
And elsewhere he writes: " The images of men's wits and knowledges remain in books, 
exempted from the wrong of time, and capable of perpetual renovation." The uses of 
books were pointed out by quaint old Fuller: "To divert, at any time, a troublesome 
fancy, run to thy books. They presently fix thee to them, and drive the other out of 
thy thoughts. They always receive thee with the same kindness." What books were 
to Fletcher we discovered from a beautiful passage in his ' ' Elder Brother' ' : 

" The place that does contain 
My books, the best companions, is to me 
A glorious court, where hourly I converse 
With the old sages and philosophers; 
And sometimes, for variety, I confer 
With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ; 
Calling their victories, if unjustly got. 
Unto a strict account, and in my fancy 
Deface their ill-placed statues." 



XXVlll IXTEODUCTION. 

No one has written more eloquently about books than Milton in his Areopagitica : 
"Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a progeny of life in them to be 
as active as that soul whose progeny they are. Nay, they do preserve, as in a vial, the 
purest efficacy and extraction of that Uving intellect that bred them." Nothing comes 
home to what Bacon calls men's business and bosoms with a stronger personahty than 
books, and no one has made this so clear as Kingsley : " Except a living man, there is 
nothing more wondei'ful than a book. A message to us from the dead, from human souls 
whom we never saw, who lived, perhaps, thousands of miles away ; and yet these in little 
sheets of paper speak to us, amuse us, terrify us, teach us, comfort us, open their hearts 
to us as brothers." 

I might multiply quotations in praise of books, but happily there is no need, for we 
who possess them know what they are to us better than others can tell us. We went to 
them yesterday in one mood, and they responded to it ; we go to them to-day in another 
mood, and they respond to it ; and they will respond to the mood of to-morrow, whatever 
it may be. They belong to another world than this work-day world of ours, with its 
bustle and its tumult, its cares and its sorrows. They are cities of refuge to which we 
can fly when calamities pursue us, quiet retreats to which we can retire and be alone. 
They are always ready to receive us, to cheer and comfort us, to strengthen and sustain 
us, to enlighten us, and save us from ourselves. The troubles they cannot dissipate, the 
anguish they cannot alleviate, must be great indeed — greater than man can bear. They 
are a happiness that passes not away, a life that is everlasting. 

As long as books were confined to manuscript, it would not have been a violent figure 
of speech for a scholar to say that he had read all the books in the world. The possibility 
implied in such a statement, however, became an impossibility with the multiplication of 
books by printing. No scholar now, in his right mind, even if he were sure to live to the 
age of Methuselah, would attempt to read the literature of the world. To read the litera- 
ture of any one people, the longest life that was ever lived would be insufficient ; merely 
to skim over English literature from the days of Chaucer to our own would exhaust all the 
waking hours of a century ; and it is increasing every day, in every direction, at a rate that 
is incalculable. 

It is a hopeless outlook, then, the pessimist thinks ; but without due reflection, as is his 
wont. He forgets that the increase of readers keeps pace with the increase of books, and 
that books supersede each other rapidly. Good books teach us to avoid bad books, and 
short books to avoid long books. The very multiplicity of books is an advantage to us, in 
that it compels us to determine what books we will and what books we will not read, and 
compels those who make books to make only such books as will be read. It may have 
once been true, as Fuller said, that learning hath gained most by those books by which the 



INTKODUCTION. XXIX 

printers have lost ; but it is true no longer, for printers are wiser than they were, having 
learned how to sell books ; as authors are wiser than they were, having learned how to 
write books that will sell. The process of separating the good from the bad is always 
going on, and with it the process of condensing the good into the best. That both pro- 
cesses were known to the ancients is as evident from their anthologies a-; from our own. 
That such books were felt to be needed, and were, therefore, demanded, in the time of 
Shakespeare, is certain from the number that were published then. Paradises of Dainty 
Devices, Galleries of Gallant Inventions, Bowers of Delight, Arbors of Amorous Devices, 
England's Helicons, Poetical Rhapsodies, and so on, which were read by all, even such 
simpletons as Slender, who, on going to dinner at Master Page's, would rather than forty 
shillings he had his book of songs and sonnets by him. These miscellanies were the store- 
houses of the poetic wealth of the time, drawn from the treasuries of its intellectual kings 
and nobles, and the scanty tributes of their followers, and as such they have been of the 
greatest value to the editors of later miscellanies, of which by far the most important saw 
the light about one hundred and twenty years ago in Percy's Reliques. I call Percy's 
Reliques an important book, because it created a taste for Old English Poetry — which is but 
another way of saying it created a naturalness of feeling and simplicity of expression — and 
because it exercised a mighty influence upon the coming race of poets. It may be said, 
indeed, to have created an epoch in literature, European as well as EngUsh, for it set the 
fashion for similar collections in many European tongues. 

The scope of such books, which are too abundant for enumeration, has gone on 
broadening from that day to this, now in the green and flowery valley of poetry, and now 
in the soberer levels of prose, until at last it embraces both, as in this book. The class to 
which it belongs is necessary in every modern literature, and in none so necessary as in 
English literature, which in extent and variety surpasses all other literatures together, and, 
whether it is well or ill executed, it is never likely to become obsolete. It is in the nature 
of things literary that it should exist, and it ought to exist for many reasons. This 
book, for instance, will carry a knowledge of English literature where it could not other- 
wise go, since it will make its readers familiar with many writers whose works are only 
tnown to students, and of which the general knowledge is very slight. If the greatest 
writers have written too much, and we know they have, it cannot but be that lesser writers 
have done the same, and to an inconceivable measure. If the reader of these pages is not 
sure of this fact, he would be sure of it if he had read, as I have, all of Suckling, and 
Carew, and Browne, and Brome, and Cotton, and their fellows, and would wish that he had 
been contented with the best of their work, as it exists in Percy or Ellis, or whoever else has 
since transplanted it into poetic anthologies. They wrote but little that was good, and 
that little we have ; the rest is rubbish, or worse. And what is true of these poets is true of 
other poets, and of scores of prose writers as well. It is only at divine moments that the 



XXX IXTEODUCTIOX. 

genius of a writer declares itself in its fulness ; it is the fruit of these divine moments 
that we want, not the wilderness of leafage in which it is buried. There are few writers 
whose complete works can be read with profit, to say nothing of pleasure ; but there are 
hundreds of writers in portions of whose works pleasure and profit can be found. To 
recover and preserve these portions is to be more just to them than they were to them- 
selves, and to add, besides, to our own intellectual health and wealth. For whatever is just 
and true and noble in books, great or small, enriches and strengthens the man who ponders 
it, and takes it into himself. The mind of the man who does this with this book will be 
a GoLDEx Treasury. 

R. H. STODDARD. 

New York, -January 24th, 1883. 




Part I. 




0mt anbf Mit:^^xh^. 



\(2X^M^/>^ 



HOME AND FIRESIDE 



o>o«^S>o^o 








"Til' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through, 
To meet their dad, \vi' flichterin noise and glee." 






THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



'Y loved, iny honoured, much respected 
friend ! 

Tif^ No mercenary hard this homage pays ; 
l| With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 



To you I sing, in simple Scottish laj^s, 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 

The native feelings sti'ong, the guileless ways ; 
AVTiat Aiken in a cottage would have heen ; 

Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I 
ween. 



34 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



November chill blaws loud wi' augiy sngh; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts i-etreatiug f rae the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 

This night his ^\■eeklr moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 



His wee bit ingle, blinkiu bonnilj-. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie"s smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a" his weary carking cares beguile, 
An" makes him quite forget his labor an" his toil. 

Beljwe, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At seiwice out, amang the farmers rouu" : 
Some ca" the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 




' 'Tis when a youthful, loving-, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale.' 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

The expectant wee-things, toddlin. stacher 
through. 
To meet their dad. wi" tlichterin noise and glee. 



ITieir eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu" bloom, love sparkling in her e"e. 

Comes hame, ])erhaps, to show a bi*aw new gown 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 

To help her parents dear, if they in hai-dship be. 



HOME AjSTD fireside. 



35 



Wi' joj^ unfeigned brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, iiartial, eye their hopeful years, 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 

Gars anld claes look araaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition dvie. 



Lest in temptation's path yc gang astray. 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
aright! " 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 



Lord 




"They round the ingle form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big Ka'-Bible, ance his father's pride." 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 

An' mind then- labors wi' an eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play : 

"An', 0, be sure to fear the Lord alway, 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! 



The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
"\ATiile Jenuj'' hafflins is afraid to speak; 

Weel jfleased the mother hears, it 's nae wild worth- 
less I'ake. 



36 



THE GOLDEX TREASUP.T. 



Wi' kindly welcome Jenuy brings him ben ; 

A sti-appan youth ; he takes tlie mother's eye , 
Blj^the Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joj', 

But, hlate and laithfu', scarce can Aveel behave , 
The mother, wi' a Avoman's wiles, can spy 

■^Tiat makes the youth sae bashf u' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 



Is there, in human form, that bears a heart. — 

A ■\\Tetch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting 3'outh? 
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 

Ai'e honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction 
wild! 




"The priust-like father reaUb the sacred page.' 



O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weaiy, mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare : 
If Heaven a draught of heavenlj' pleasure spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
"T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 
srale ! 



But now the supper crowns the simple board. 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
The soup their only hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood • 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her well-hained kebbuck fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal ■\\'ifie, garrulous, will tell 
How "t was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i" the 
bell. 



HOME AND FIEESIDE. 



37 



llie cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious fiice, 

Thej^, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, wV patriarchiil gi-ace, 

The big ha"-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 

His Ij'art haffets wearing thin au' bare ; 
Those sti'ains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a i)ortion with judicious care; 
And "Let us worship God!'' he says, with solemn 
air. 



Or noble "Elgin " beets the heavenward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holj' lays : 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures i-aise ; 

Nae imison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on his:h ; 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek"s ungracious progeny; 




'The parent pair their secret homage pay." 



Thej^ chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They time their hearts, hy far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures 
rise. 

Or jilaintive ••Martyrs," worth}- of the name; 



Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ii 

Or .Tob's pathetic plaint, and Availing cry; 
Or i-apt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 

Oi- other holy seers that tune the sacred Ivre. 



38 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 
How His lii-st f ollo\\'ers and ser\^ants sped ; 

The precepts sage they A\Tote to many a land : 
How He, who lone in Patmos banished. 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
And heard great Babj'lon's doom pronounced 
Heaven's command. 



by 



There ever bask in uncreated raj's, 
Xo more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hyuuiiug their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear; 

"While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 

"WTien men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's ever5' grace, except the heart! 




' He wlio stills the raven's clamorous nest.' 



'Jlien kneeling doMn, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the husband, and the father 
prays : 

IIoi)e " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
That thus thev all shall meet in future davs : 



The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 

But hapl.v, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 

And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



39 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair, in flqwery pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, In their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That make her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; 

" An honest man 's the noblest work of G-od : " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wTetch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 



O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, O, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved 
isle. 

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; 
"VVho dared to nobly stem tj-rannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward! 
O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot, and the pati-iot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 

Robert Bukns. 



j^j> 



MAKE HOME-LIFE BEAUTIFUL. 



gET me say to parents: Make the home-life beautiful, without and within, and 
^ they will sow the seeds of gentleness, true kindness, honesty and fidelity, 
^'-^ in the hearts of their children, from which the children reap a harvest 

of happiness and virtue. The memory of the beautiful and hapjoy home of childhood 

is the richest legacy any man can leave to his children. The heart will never forget 

its hallowed influences. It will be an evening enjoyment, to which the lapse of years 

will only add new sweetness. Such a home is a constant inspiration for good, and as 

constant a restraint from evil. 

If by taste and culture we adorn our homes 

and grounds and add to their charms, our 

children will find the quiet pleasures of rural 

homes more attractive than the whirl of city 

life. Such attractions and enjoyments will 

invest home-life, school-life, the whole future 

of life with new interests and with new dignity 

and joyousness, for life is just Avhat we make 

it. We may by our blindness live in a world 

of darkness and gloom, or in a world full of 

sunlight and beauty and joy ; for the world 

without only reflects the world within. Also, the a country Home. 

tasteful improvement of grounds and home exerts a good influence not only upon the 

inmates, but upon the community. An elegant dwelling, surrounded by sylvan attractions, 

is a contribution to the refinement, the good order, the taste and prosperity of every 

community, improving the public taste and ministering to every enjoyment. 

B. G. NORTHRUI*. 




40 



THE GOLD EX TEEASUEY. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



^^^Y the fireside there are old men seated, 
^^ Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 
'^§ Asking sadly 

f i- Of the Past what it can ne"er restore them. 

I ' 

By the fireside there are j'outhful dreamers, 
Building castles fair with stately stairwaj-s. 

Asking hlindly 
Of the Futm-e what it cannot give them. 



By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In Avhose scenes appear two actors onty. 

Wife and Husband, 
And above them God, the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 
Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces, 

"Waiting, watching. 
For a well-known footstep in the passage. 

Henky Wadsavorth Longfellow. 



■=<>=-^-^-<>=» — 




' \Miat is the little one thinking about?" 



CRADLE SONG. 



^HAT is the little one thinking about? 
\'erj^ wonderful things, no doubt; 
&^^L'i Un^^•ritten history ! 

L^nf athomed mysterj' ! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks. 
And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks. 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctm-ed by pins, and tortured by fears. 
Our little nejihew \\\\\ lose two yeai"s; 



And he"ll never know 
"\Miere the summers go ; 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks? 
Vn\o can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown. 
Blind, and wailing, and alone 

Into the light of day? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea. 
Tossing in pitiful agony; 



HOME AKD FrRESIDE. 



41 



Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped fi-om heaven on an ebbing tide! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air? 

What does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever vdth fresh delight. 

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 



Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she mm-mur the words 

Of all the birds- 
Words she has learned to murmur well? 

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse. 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little tinger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
See! he's hushed in sweet repose. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



-^^5 



yS^y~j 



DUTY AI^D IT^FLUEI^CE OF MOTHEES. 




T is by the promulgation of sound morals in the community, and 
more especially by the training and instruction of the young, that 
woman performs her part towards the preservation of a free government. 
It is generally admitted that public liberty and the perpetuity of a 
free constitution rest on the virtue and intelligence of the community 
which enjoys it. How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is 
that intelligence to be communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madame 
de Stael in what manner he could best promote the happiness of France. 
Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said, "Instruct the mothers 
of the French people." Mothers are indeed the affectionate and effective teachers of 
the human race. The mother begins her process of training with the infant in her 
arms. It is she who directs, so to speak, its first mental and spiritual pulsations. 
She conducts it along the impressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to 
deliver it to the stern conflicts and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good 
principles which her child has received from maternal care and love. 

If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers of a civilized nation, 
what do we see? We behold so many artificers working, not on frail, perishable matter, 
but on the immortal mind, moulding and fashioning beings who are to exist forever. 
We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present the mimic man upon the 
canvas ; we admire and celebrate the sculptor who works out that same image in 
enduring marble ; but how insignificant are these achievements, though the highest and 
the fairest in all the departments of art, in comparison with the great vocation of 
human mothers ! They work, not upon the canvas that shall perish, or the marble that 
shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and 
which is to bear for good or evil, throughout its duration, the impress of a mother's 
plastic hand. 

I have already expressed the opinion, which all allow to be correct, that our 
security for the duration of the free institutions which bless our countrj^ depends upon 
habits of virtue, and the prevalence of knowledge and of education. The attainment 



42 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 



of knowledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger term of education. 
The feelings are to be disciplined ; the passions are to be restrained ; true and worthy 
motives are to be inspired ; a profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and pure 
morality inculcated under all circumstances. Mothers who are faithful to this gi-eat 
duty will tell their children, that neither in political nor in any other concerns of life 
can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual obhgations of conscience and of 
duty ; that in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a just responsibility ; 
and that in no condition is he warranted in trifling with important rights and obligations. 
They will impress upon their children the truth, that the exercise of the elective 
franchise is a social dut}^ of as solemn a nature as man can be called to perform ; 
that a man may not innocently trifle with his vote ; that every free elector is a trustee, 
as well for others as for himself ; and that every man and every measure he supports 
have an important bearing on the interests of others, as well as on his own. It is in 
the inculcation of high and pure morals such as these, that in a free republic woman 
performs her sacred duty, and fulfils her destiny. 

Daniel Webster. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 



^^ETWEEX the dark and the daylight, 
^^ 'VMieu the night Is begiuning to lower, 
^jii^ Comes a pause in the daj'"s occupations, 
TjT That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice and laughing AUegra, 
And Edith -with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence, 

Yet I kno\\' bv their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the staiiTvay, 

A sixddeu raid from the hall. 
By three doors left imguarded, 

They enter my castle waU. 



They climb up into my tm-ret, 
0"er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me : 
They seem to be everj-where. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

ITieir arms about me ent^vine. 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 

In his Mouse-tower on the Ehine. 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for j^ou all? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And Avill not let you depart, 
But piit you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever. 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadswortu Longfellow. 






HOME. 

^^ MAN'S house should be on the hill-top of cheerfulness and serenity, so high that 
^i^ no shadows rest upon it, and where the morning comes so earl}^ and the 
evening tarries so late, that the day has twice as many golden hours as those of other 
men. He is to be pitied whose house is in some valley of grief between the hills, with 
the longest night and the shortest day. 



Home should be the center of joy. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



43 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 



, SEVEN TIMES ONE. — EXULTATION. 

^ipHERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
^1^ There's no rain left in heaven. 
'^^ I've said my "seven times" over and over — 
Tif Seven times one are seven. 

I am old — so old I can wi'ite a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always — they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 



I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee ! you'i-e a dustj^ fellow — 

You've powdered your legs with gold. 

O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow. 
Give me yoiu- money to hold! 

O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper. 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 




' I am seven times one to-dav.'' 



O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining so round and low. 
You were bright— ah, bright— but your light is failing ; 

You are nothing now but a bow. 



O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the puqile clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 



And show me your nest, with the young ones in it — 
I will not steal them away ; 
You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven, I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 
That God has hidden j^our face? I am seven times one to-day. 



44 



THE GOLDEX TREASLTIY. 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. — ROMANCE. 



KJ^OU bells in the steeple, riug, ring out your changes 
How many soever thej' be, 
' And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 
Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bu'd's clearest carol bj^ fall or bj^ swelling 

Xo magical sense convej's, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

The fortune of future daj's. 



I wait for the day ^\■hen dear hearts shall discover, 
"WTiile dear hands are laid on my head ; 

" The child is a woman, the book may close 
over. 
For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for mj- story — the birds cannot ainff it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! 

Such a< I wisli it to be. 




' I leaned out of window. I smelt the while clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate." 



"Turn again, tm"n again," once they rang cheerily. 

AVTiile a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart j^earn again, musing so wearily 

All bj' himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, thej^ are j'et to be; 
Xo listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover : 

You leave the story to me. 

The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted heather. 

Preparing her hoods of snow; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshinj- weather : 

O children take long to grow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Xor long summer bide so late ; 
And 1 could grow on like the fox-glove and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 



SEVEN TIMES THREE. — LOVE. 

LE AXED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; 
'• Xow, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, 
wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step dra\Aeth near, 
For my love he is late! 

" Tlie skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: 
To what art thou listening, aud what dost thou see? 
Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



45 



"You night-moths that hover where honey brims ovei 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; 
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, 

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." . 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover ; 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Thau e'er wife loved before. 
Be the days dark or bright. 



For children wake, though fathers sleep, 
With a stone at foot and at head; 

sleepless God ! forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see, 
But a world happy and fair ; 

I have not wished it to mourn mth me. 
Comfort is not there. 

O what anear but golden brooms ! 

And a waste of reedy rills ; 
what afar but the flue glooms 

On the rare blue hills I 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. — MATERNITY. 

ll^pEIGH-HO ! daisies and buttercups, 
i^Si Fair yellow daffodils, statel}' and tall! 
/(^■^v When the wind wakes how they rock in the 
jl^ grasses, 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own 
lasses, 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daises and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full 
fain ; 
Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but 
narrow," — 
Sing once and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups. 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters. 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. ^ 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters. 
Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 

Fair yellow daffodils, statelj^ and tall — 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall 
Send down on their pleasure-smiles passing its meas- 
lu'e, 
God that is over us all ! 



SEVEN TIMES FIVE. — WIDOVTIIOOD. 

SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan, 

Before I am well awake ; 
"Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone, 

Since I must not break! " 




"Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone.' 



I shall not die, but live forlore — 
How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more! — 
O my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see! 

that an echo might awake 

And waft one note of th,v psalm to me, 
Ere my heart-sti'ings break ! 

1 should know it how faint so e'er. 
And with angel voices blent; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear, 

1 could be content ! 

O once between the gates of gold, 
WTiile an angel entering trod ; 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God. 



46 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



SEVEN TIMES SIX.— GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

§j|I^O bear, to uiu'se, to i-ear, 
^^ To watch, and then to lose : 
'f^^^ To see mj- bright ones disappear, 
J i| t Drawn up like morning dews ; — 

1 1 To bear, to uurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done Avhen God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

And with th}' lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed. 

Will let no longer smart. - 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This whilst thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

"^lother, give me thj' child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind, 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But, ^\-heu a man like grace would find, 

My soul put bj' her fears. 
O fond, O fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown j-ears. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose. 
Thy uiother's teuderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, mj- dear. 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN.— LONGINGS FOR HOME. 

vwf°'v- A Song of a. Boat. 

f-Vjy HEEE was once a boat on a billow : 
V^ Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 



^^ 



, And the foam was white in her Avake like 

snow, 
xVud her frail mast bowed \\hen the breeze 

would blow. 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one daj^ when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote. 
She faded out on tlie moonlit foam. 



And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And mj' thoughts all daj" were about the boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray j'ou hear mj' song of a boat. 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall tind none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she boi'e, 

Ou the open desolate sea; 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore. 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah, me ! 



A Song- of a Nest. 



PJ|I5|HERE was once a nest in a hollow, 

uJAii DoAvn in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 




,, .„- Soft and warm and full to the brim: 
T Vetches leaned over it puiple and dim; 
^ With buttercup buds to follow. 



I pray j'ou hear my song of a nest. 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter. 

A fairer ncstful, nor ever knoM' 
A softer sound than their tender twitter. 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a uestful once of my own — 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them; but \\'hen they were 
grown 

ITiey spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew awaj-. 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better counti-y, the upper day ; 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray j'OU, what is the nest to me. 

M.y emptj' nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail doATO to the Avest? 
Can I call that home where I anchor j-et. 

Though my good man has sailed? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 
Nay, but the port where mj' sailor went. 

And the land where mj' nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent. 

The only home for me — 

Ah. me! 

Jean Ingelow. 



HOME AJSTD FIEESIDE. 



47 



THE FARMEE'S HOME. 







EBSTER defines home as a " dwelling-place," but it admits of a broader meaning. 
There are brilliant and elegant homes. Some are wise, thrifty and careful, and 
<5'« others are warm and genial, by whose glowing hearths any one, at any time, 
may find enough and to spare. There are bright homes and gloomy homes. 
There are homes that hurry and bustle through years of incessant labor, until one and 
another of the inmates fall, like the falling leaves, and the homes turn to dust. We do not 
say the dairymaid's home compares with this last view. Science has done much to remove 
the drudgery in our homes, introducing ease and comfort. An ideal home must first have 
a government, but love must be the dictator. All should unite to make home happy. We 
should have light in our homes — heaven's own pure, transparent light. It mattei's not 
whether home is clothed in blue and purple, if it is only brimful of love, smiles and gladness. 

Our boards should be spread with everything good and enjoyable. We should have 
birds, flowers, pets, everything suggestive of sociability. Flowers are as indispensable to 
the perfections of a home as to the perfections of a plant. Do not give them all the 
sunniest windows and pleasantest corners, crowding out the children. If you cannot have 
a large conservatory, have a small one. Give your children pets, so that by the care and 
attention bestowed upon them they may learn the habits of animals. 

Of the ornamentation about a house, although a broad lake lends a charm to the 
scenery, it cannot compare with the babbling brook. As the little streamlet goes tumbling 
over the rocks and along the shallow, pebbly bed, it may be a marvellous teacher to the 
children, giving them lessons of enterprise and perseverance. 

In our homes we must have industiy and sympathy. In choosing amusements for the 
children, the latter element must be brought in. To fully understand the little ones, you 
must sympathize with them. When a child asks questions don't meet it with, " Oh, don't 
bother me !" Tell it all it wants to know. Never let your angry passions rise, no matter 
how much you may be tried. For full and intelligent happiness in the home circle, a 
library of the best works is necessary. Do not introduce the milk-and-water fiction of the 
present day, but books of character. Our homes should have their Sabbaths and their 
family altars. Around these observances cling many of our most sacred memories. 

William H. Yeomans. 



A WINTER'S FIRESIDE. 



jjENTEE, thou daughter of the storm, 
P^^ I love thee wheu the day is o'er, 

Spite of the teuipesfs outward roar ; 

Queen of the tranquil joys that weave 
The charm around the sudden eve ; 
The thickening footsteps through the gloom, 
Telling of those we love come home ; 
The candles lit, the cheerful board, 
The dear domestic group restored ; 
The fire that shows the looks of glee 
The infants standing at our knee; 
The busy news, the sportive tongue, 



The laugh that makes us still feel young ; 
The health to those we love, that now 
Are far as ocean winds can blow ; 
The health to those that with us grew, 
And still stay with us tried and true ; 
The wife that makes life glide away. 
One long and lovely marriage-day. 
Then music comes, till — round us creep 
The infant listeners, half asleep ; 
And busy tongues are loud no more. 
And winter, thy sweet eve is o'er. 




mm 



48 THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 



A CHEERFUL HOME. 

SrXGLE bitter word may disquiet an entire family for a whole day. One surly 
glance casts a gloom over the household, while a smile, like a gleam of sunshine, 
may lig-ht up the darkest and weariest hours. Like unexpected flowers, which 
^1^ spring up along our path, full of freshness, fragrance and beauty, do kind 
I" words and gentle acts and sweet dispositions make glad the home where peace 

] and blessing dwell. No matter how humble the abode, if it be thus garnished 

with grace and sweetened with kindness and smiles, the heart will turn lovingly toward it 
from all the tumult of the world — it will be the dearest spot beneath the circuit of the sun. 
And the influences of home perpetuate themselves. The gentle grace of the mother 
lives in the daughter long after her head is pillowed in the dust of death ; and the fatherly 
kindness finds its echo in the nobility and courtesy of sons, who come to wear his mantle 
and to fill his place ; while on the other hand, from an unhappy, misgoverned and disor- 
dered home, go foi'th persons who shall make other homes miserable, and perpetuate the 
sourness and sadness, the contentions and strifes and raihngs which have made their own 
early lives so wretched and distorted. 

Toward the cheerful home the children gather " as clouds and as doves to their 
windows," while from the home which is the abode of discontent and strife and trouble, 
they fly forth as vultures to rend their prey. 

The class of men who disturb and distress the world are not those born and nurtured 
amid the hallowed influence of Christian homes ; but rather those whose early life has been 
a scene of trouble and vexation — who have started wrong in the pilgrimage, and whose 
course is one of disaster to themselves, and trouble to those around them. 



WILLIE "WI^TKIE. 






agi'c-- 



IPEE Willie Winkie rins throiiffh the town. Rumblin" tumblin" roiin'' about, crawin' like a cock, 

ii^jj^s UiD-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, Skirlin" like a kenua-what — wauknin' sleepin" folk! 
^^W^ Tirlin' at the window, cnin' at the lock. 

W ^-Are the weans in their bed?— for U's now Hey. Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel! 

ten o'clock."" Waumblin' aff a bodie"s knee like a Aera eel. 

Rngffin" at the cat"s luw', and ravelliu' a" her thrums: 

Hey. Willie Winkie? are ye comin' ben? Hev,' AViUie Winkie !-see. there he comes ! 
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin nen. 

The doug"s speldered on the floor, and disna gie a ^^^^^..^ .^ ^^^ ^^.^^^^. ^^,^^ j^^^, ^^ ^^^^..^ ^^.^.^^^^ 

cheep: ^ ^^.^^ gtimipie stoussie, that cauua rin his lane. 

But here-s a waukrif laddie, that winna fa" asleep. .^.^^^ ^^^ ^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^.j, ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^.^^ ^^^^^ ^^,^ ^^ . 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like the But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies sti-ength anew 

moon, to me. 

Eattlin' in an airn jug wi" an aim spoon. William Miller. 

^ s--j<r-^ ^ 

Happy the child who is suffered to be, and content to be, what God meant it to 
be — a child while childhood lasts. Happy the parent who does not force artificial 
manners, precocious feelings, premature religion. 



HOME AXD FIEESIDE. 



49 




GEOWII^G AGED TOGETHER. 

LOVE to turn now and then to that touching story in the Apocrypha, 
of the young man and woman who were just married and ready to 
start together on their untried career, and especially to notice how 
this was their first cry to Heaven when the wedding-guests had gone, 
and they were alone in their chamber: "Mercifully ordain that we 
may grow aged together. " 

The man had come a long way after his wife, and knew very 
little about her, except as her father had told him they were a good 
and honest stock. She was to go back with him, and live with him 
under the eye of her mother-in-law ; and how the experiment would 
succeed, as the years swept on, he had of course no idea. His 
mother was a woman of very notable qualities. When her husband 
. went blind once, she turned out and made the living with her spinning- 
wheel ; and they were so delighted with her work in one place, that 
they gave her a kid in addition to her day's wages. But when she brought it home, 
and her husband heard it bleating, he wanted to know Avhere she got that kid. She 
told him it was a present, but he did not believe her. He said she had stolen it ! 
Well, she could go out and work for him, but she could not and would not submit 
to a charge like that ; so she turned on him, and gave him such a piece of her mind 
as I suppose he never forgot as long as he lived : and after this they got along very 
well until better days came, and there is no hint in the family history that she ever 
referred to the thing again. She had it out with him then and there, and made him 
ashamed of himself, no doubt. And then, as she knew he was a true man, and he 
knew she was a true woman, in the face of this grim convulsion, they did not rush 
into the divorce court, or threaten to do so ; — he did not turn brute or she vixen ; the 
sky cleared when the storm was over, and never clouded up again. And how the story 
got out, I have no idea : perhaps the man told it, a long time after, against himself. 

This young man was their one child, the pride and joy of their life ; and this was 
the home into which he was to bring his wife. What would come of it, he could not 
tell. Whether she would settle kindly in the new place, or be all the time fretting 
after the home of her childhood ; whether such a woman as his mother was, and as 
his wife ought to be, could so blend their supremacy as to make one music as before, 
instead of a discord that would make him rue the day he brought them together, like 
the elements of a galvanic battery. All this was unknown to him ; but he knelt down 
with her, and prayed, "Mercifully ordain that we may grow aged together." 

It was one of those weddings, too, for which we sometimes predict a leisurely 
repentance — love at first sight, followed by very brief courtship, and then the weddino- 
friends' congratulations, kisses, tears, laughter, and a supper, which they ate, no doubt, 
looking shyly at each other, and wondering whether it could be possible they were 
husband and wife. Was it a dream that had come true, or only a dream ; a drama, 
or that out of which all dramas are made ; a mirage of sun and mist on the horizon 
of their life, or the essence and substance of realities? Poor things! they were both 
quite young ; they did not know much of the world they had lived in, and nothing at 
4 



50 THE GOLDEX TEEASITfY. 

all of the world they were entering. Since they first met, it had been Eden unfallen, 
with the dew of heaven on it. Did they wonder whether a brief sjoace would find them 
outside their Eden, in among the thorns and briers, with a flaming sword at the o-ates, 
forbidding their return ? I can only wonder : I cannot tell ; but this is worth more 
than all such surmise — they knelt down together, in the still, sweet sanctity of their 
chamber, with the light of Eden on their faces, with its sweetness and purit}^ Uke an 
atmosphere about them ; and then the man prayed, and the woman said Amen to this 
prayer. 

It was natural also, that, coming together as they did, they should know very little 
of each other in regard to those details of the life before them, on which so very much 
must depend in the course of time. There was a story in their sacred books about a fore- 
elder who had made just such a match as this, and it didn't turn out well at all. They 
were unrelated souls ; and as time went on, it revealed the difference so fatally, that 
when he was an old man, and blind, she practiced on him a gross deception, to gain a 
blessing for her favorite son, he had meant to . bestow on his own. They may have 
thought of this, and wondered whether their trust in each other would ever come to such 
an end as that. He had swept suddenly into the circle of her life — a fine, stalwart 
fellow, filling up the picture she had in her heart of the man she would marry. But 
she really knew no more about him than he knew about her. Could he hold his own 
as bread-winner, and she as bread-maker? Could he keep a home over her head, and 
could she make it bright and trim, as a man loves to see his home when he comes in 
tired, and wants to rest? ^Vould he turn out selfish or self -forgetful, or she a frivolous 
gossip, or a woman he could trust like his own soul? Would the sunshine break out 
in his face as he entered his own door, and meet the sunshine breaking out on hers? 
Would she cry, "Husband, here's your shppers : little Anna has been toasting them 
this half-hour;" and he reply, "Ah, wife! you're the woman to think of a man. 
Where are the children?" Or would he save all his snarls until he had shut the door, 
and sat down to supper, and she gave him back his own with usury? There it all 
lay before them — the vast, unknown possibility, leading to heaven or to hell by the 
time they got to their silver wedding. There was but one wish resting in their hearts, 
come what would — resting there as the lark, in my old home-land, rests among the 
heather ; and then it soared, as the lark soars, singing into heaven ; and this was the 
burden of their spring-time melody — "Mercifully ordain that we may grow aged 
together." 

Still we have to see how this cry Avould be of no more use then than it is now 
sometimes, if it did not stand throuo-h all the time to come, at once as a safeguard and an 
inspiration — a safeguard against some things that prevent our growing aged together, and 
an inspiration to some that help us. It was a natural and most beautiful longing just then 
voicing itself out of their pure hearts' love. They felt sure they had been made for each 
other ; and Avhile they knew that time must turn the raven to white, furrow the brow, 
blench the bloom, and touch all their faculties with its wintry frost, if they should 
live, still the}'' wanted the good God to deal them out an even measure together. This 
seems to me to be the binding word of the whole stor}^ ; together then as now, in the 
autumn as in the spring, in taking as in giving — until they were borne away, not far 
apart, into the life to come. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 51 

But touching the most outward things of our life, I can see a danger, if they do not 
take care, that their prayer will not and cannot be answered. They may both grow aged, 
that may be as God ordains ; and they may live together while their life lasts, that 
must be as they ordain ; yet this day may be, for all that, the end of their equality in 
age. For if he were one of those men we have all known, whose life and soul are given 
over to business, who rise early and sit up late, and work like galley-slaves to make a 
fortune, and she were one of those women who take life easy, and run no risks, he mio-ht 
be a broken-down old man with a fortune, while she was still young enough to enjoy it. 
Or if he had a secret vice, such as, keeping ice-water on the sideboard, and a sample-room 
in the closet, or any other of those subtle and dangerous devils that are always watching 
for a chance to drag a man down, while she held her life sweet and pure and true, then, 
long before their silver wedding, he may be in his grave, or be fit for very little out of it ; 
an old man in mid-age, with the warning finger of paralysis on his shoulder, or the splints 
of inflammatory rheumatism in his marrow — a broken man she has to nurse like a 
fretful child. Or if she, poor girl, is beginning this wedded life, as so many of our girls 
do, without the fine sturdy womanhood of the open air, with a bloom on her blessed 
face like that you see on the blossoms in a hot-house, while he has in him the strong 
vitality of the desert and the hills, then, by the time she has borne those six sons we 
hear of afterward, she will have aged two years to his one. I know, if he has a man's 
heart in his breast, he will love her and cherish her all the more for her lost beauty and 
broken health ; and some blessing may be found in this altered relation which might 
never have come to their perfect equality. But this is not the real kernel of the question. 
This blended being of the man and woman is, first of all, a piece of exquisite mechanism, 
ordained of heaven for a certain work on this earth ; and it is the first condition of it, 
that all the arms of its power shall be equal to their design. Now, where this power 
fails by our folly, on either side, the thing in that shape is past praying for ; we can 
only pray then for power and grace to make the best of it ; and thank God that prayer 
can be answered. So I hope, when they cried, "Mercifully ordain that we may grow 
aged together," this outward condition of equality in health and strength was there 
in their nature ; or they might as well pray that the wheels of a watch, one half pewter 
and the other half steel, might be of equal endurance and worth. 

And so to-day, if young men are not honest and wholesome clean through, and if young 
women will not train themselves to the finest and sturdiest womanhood possible to their 
nature ; if they will not eat brown bread, and work in the garden — if they have one — with 
some more grip than a bird scratching, and quit reading novels in a hot room, and 
devouring sweetmeats ; if they dare not face the sun and wind, and try to out-walk, ay, 
and out-run their brothers, and let our wise mother Nature buckle their belt — they had 
not better say Amen when the stalwart young husband cries, " Mercifully ordain that 
we may grow aged together." 

This, however, is the most outward condition ; reaching inward, we find others more 
delicate- and divine. These young people have now to find each other out, and they may 
spend a lifetime doing that. Some married folks find each other out, as I have read of 
mariners finding out the polar world. They leave the shores of their single life in the 
spring days, with tears and benedictions, sail on awhile in sunshine and fair weather, 
and then find their way little by little into the cold latitudes, where they see the sun 



52 THE GOLDEX TKEASUKY. 

sink day by day, and feel the frost creep in, until thej give up at last, and turn to ice 
sitting at the same table. 

Others, again, find each other out as we have been finding out this continent. They 
nestle down at first among the meadows, close by the clear streams ; then they go on 
through a belt of shadow, lose their way, and find it again the best they know, and come 
out into a larger horizon and a better land; they meet their difficult hills, and climb 
them together, strike deserts and dismal places, and cross them together ; and so at last 
they stand on the further reaches of the mountains, and see the other ocean sunning 
itself sweet and still, and then their journey ends. But through shadows and shine, this 
is the gospel for the day : they keep together right on to the end. They allow no danger, 
disaster or difference to divide them, and no third person to interfere ; for if they do 
it may be as if William and Mary of England had permitted the great Louis to divide 
their throne by first dividing their hearts. 

Did you ever hear my definition of marriage ? A wise and witty man says : "It 
resembles a pair of shears, so joined that they cannot be separated ; often moving in 
opposite directions, yet always punishing any one who comes between them." The 
definition is as witty as it is wise ; and he might have added, part the shears, and then 
all you have left is two poor daggers. 

So it is possible we may grow aged in finding each other out, and wondering why 
we never saw that trait before, or struck that temper ; but if there be between us a true 
heart, if the rivet holds, then the added years will only bring added reasons for a perfect 
union, and the sweet old ballad will be our psalm of life : — 

" Johu Andereon, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane auither, 
Xow we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand \ve"ll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo." 

We must find each other out ; and then it is possible that, like my mother's old 
shears, over which I used to ponder when I was a child, one side is greater, and the 
other, by consequence, less. 

I found James ]Mott delighted, one evening when I went to call on him, because, while 
he was working in his garden, two men went by, and one said, " That is James jNIott." — 
"And who is James Mott?" — "Why, don't you know? He is Lucretia Mott's husband." 
Now, James JNIott was by no means a common man : with a lesser half, he would have 
seemed a great man ; and he was great in his steady and perfect loyalty to truth and 
goodness. But his wife was the woman of a centuiy, while he was so noble and great 
of soul as to be glad and proud of her greatness, and at the same time he seemed all 
the greater for his worship — a feat, I notice, few men are able to accomplish. 

Audubon, our great naturalist, married a good, sweet woman ; and when she began to 
find him out, she found he would wander off a thousand miles in quest of a bird. She 
said "Amen!" and went with him, camped in the woods, lived in log huts and shanties 
on the frontier, anywhere to be with him. She entered into his enthusiasm, shared his 
labor, and counted all things but loss for the excellency of the glory of being Audubon's 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 53 

wife. When the chUdren began to come to them, he had to wander off alone ; but he 
could not go into a valley so deep, or a wilderness so distant, that the light would not 
shine on him out of their windows. He knew exactly where he would find her, and how 
she would look; for while, as Euskin reminds us, the clouds are never twice alike, the 
sunshine is always familiar, and it was sunshine he saw when he looked homeward. So, 
if you have read his notes, you will remember how his heart breaks forth into singing in 
all sorts of unexpected places as he thinks of the wife and children waiting his return ; 
and in that way they lived their life until they dropped into the lap of God like mellow 
fruit. It was laid on the man to do this curious, wild work. How the woman's heart 
yearned to have him home, we may well imagine, and how gladly she would have given up 
some of his greatness to keep her children's father at her side ; but she did not tell him 
so, if she was the woman I think she was ; and so she is changed into the same image, 
from glory to glory. Growing aged together in the body, they are touched now in the 
spirit with immortal youth. 

The little idyl ends without telling us how the answer came to this cry on a wedding 
night, or whether it came at all as they expected and hoped. But that it did come in 
some good, sweet way, is certain ; for there is no word about a convulsion, and they have 
six sons. They move away, when the good wife is dead ; and after that we only see the 
man who lives, the neighbors believe, to be a hundred and twenty-seven. It makes little 
difference, that we do not know exactly how their life together ended. If they kept these 
safeguards, and followed this inspiration I have tried to touch, I knoAV it was all right. 

When Oberlin was eighty years old, and very infirm, climbing one of his native moun- 
tains one day, he was obliged to lean on the arm of a younger man, while his wife, who 
was still strong, walked by herself. Meeting one of his parishioners, the old man felt so 
awkward at his seeming lack of gallantry, that he insisted on stopping and telling just 
how it was : she could not lean on his arm, but she leaned on his heart all the same ; they 
had grown aged together, but he had shot a little ahead ; they must not think there was 
any other reason ; it was as it always had been, only he was the weaker vessel now, and 
wopld his friend please say so when he happened to mention what he had seen? So it 
would be with these twain, in that far-away Eastern valley; they would keep together; 
and when the arm failed, the heart would still abide in the old beautiful strength. 

"And what did you see?" I said once to a friend who had been into the Lake 
country, and who, on his return, told me he had gone to Wordsworth's home. "I saw 
the old man," he said, "walking in the garden with his wife. They are both quite old, 
and he is almost blind ; but they seemed just like sweethearts courting, they were so 
tender to each other, and attentive." Miss Martineau tells us the same story, with the 
additional particulars of a near neighbor, how the old wife would miss her husband, and 
trot out, and find him asleep perhaps in the sun, run for his hat, tend him and watch over 
him till he awoke ; and so it was that when he died they made one grave deep enough for 
both, and when she died they were one — one in the dust as they were one in heaven, and 
had been on earth for over forty years. The world came to Wordsworth at last, but the 
wife at first. "Worse and worse," Jeffrey said, when a new poem came out: "Better 
and better," said the wife. The world might scoff ; the wife believed. She was no Sarah 
to laugh at the angel of the Lord. What wonder, then, they were sweethearts still at 
threescore and ten? 



54 THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 

So the wife of Thomas Carlyle, the woman with the brave blood of old John Ejiox 
coursing through her heart, upheld her husband thi'ough all weathers, proud of his 
sti*ength, tender of his weakness, and never saying, "Thomas, pray do Avrite so that people 
can understand you." His wild, weird words might puzzle her brain, but they were 
simple Saxon to her heart ; and so when she died he had graven on her tomb, " For forty 
years she was the true and losing helpmate of her husband, and unweariedly forwarded 
him as none else could in all of worthy that he did or attempted." 

And so this is a prayer we can all make to God on our wedding-day, and, if we will, 
on any day and every day after, and always find the answer in the cry. Is there danger 
that we shall make it hard for Heaven to answer us in the tale of the years, because we are 
using them up like a candle lighted at both ends? "We can guard against that. Is there 
danger that while we may grow aged together in j'ears, there still may be such a fatal 
difference of spirit and purpose, that at threescore and ten we may merely be two old 
people who have found each other out, and in our knowledge have made shipwreck of our 
love? "We can guard ao-aiust that. No man and woman ever cried out with their whole 
heart, "Mercifully ordain that we may grow aged together," who did not find well-springs 
in their dryest deserts, gleams of sunlight stealing through their darkest shadows, an arm 
of power for their most appalling steeps, and sunny resting-places all the way. 

I think the average novel is making sad mischief in the average mind in its pictures of 
true love. It makes the tender glow and glamour which related natures feel when they 
meet, true love. It is no such thing : it is true passion, that is all ; a blessed power purely 
and rightly used, but no moi*e true love than those little hooks and tendrils we see in June, 
on a shooting vine, are the ripe clusters of October. For true love grows out of reverence 
and deference, loyalty and courtesy, good service given and taken, dark days and bright 
days, sorrow and jov. It is the fine essence of all we are together, and all we do. True 
passion comes first, true love last. "It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual 
body ;" and so it is written, " The first man is of the earth earthy, but the second man is 
the Lord from heaven." 

EOBEKT COLLYER. 

LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

^T"S wo two. ifs we two. ifs we two for aye. Like a laverock in the lift. sing. O bonny bride! 

1^ All the world and we two. and Heaven be onr It"s we two. ifs we two. happy side by side. 

^■■'^ stay. Take a kiss from me. thy man; now the song 

'^ Like a laverock in the lift. sing. O bonny bride I begins : 

All the world was Adam once, with Eve b}- his --AH is made afresh for us. and the brave heart 
side. wins."' 

What's the world, my lass, my love! — what can 'When the darker days come, and no sun will 

it do? shine. 

I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and Thou shnlt dry my tears, lass, and Til dry 

new. thine. 

If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; Ifs we two, ifs we two. while the world's awaj-, 

For we two have gotten leave, and once more Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding- 
we-U tiy. day. Jean Ixgelow. 



HOME XKD FIEESIDE. 



55 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



||0W dear to my heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood, 
^1 When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 
V The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
1" wood, 

I And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by 

it; 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 



How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 




' The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 
And e'en the rude bucliet that hung in tlie well- 



The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

ITiat moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure — 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 



Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! 

Samuel Woodworth. 



56 



THE GOLD EX TEEASUHT. 




THE WIFE. 



HAA^E often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women 
sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters, 
which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate liim in the dust, 
seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such 
intrepidity and elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches 
to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and 
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to 
every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her 
husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the 
bitterest blast of adversity- . 
As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted 
by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 
with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so it is beautifully ordered 
by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his 
happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding 
herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and 
binding up the bi'oken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit 
together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthu- 
siasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share 
your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have 
observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation 
in the world than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the 
necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but 
chiefl}^ because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect is kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is dai'kness and humiliation, yet 
there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single 
man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned ; and 
his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. 
My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune ; but that of 
my friend was ample, and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every 
elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies, that spread a kind 
of witchery about the sex. " Her life," said he," " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious combination : he was 
of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he Avould gaze upon her in compan}^ of which her 
sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. "\Mien leaning on his 
arm, her slender form contrasted finely Avith his tall, manly person. The fond, confiding 



HOME AjSTD fireside. 57 

air, with which she looked up to him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and 
cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never 
did a couple set forward, on the flowery path of early and well suited marriao-e, with a 
fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large 
speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden 
disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a 
time, he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a 
breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insup- 
portable was, the necessity of keeping. up a smile in the presence of his wife, for he could 
not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. 

She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. 
She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly 
and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his 
soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was 
soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from 
that cheek ; the song will die away from those lips ; the luster of those eyes will be 
quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will 
be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me, one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the 
deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, "Does your wife know all 
this?" At the question, he burst into an agony of tears. "If you have any pity on 
me," cried he, "don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to 
madness ? ' ' 

"And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it 
long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if 
imparted by yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. 
Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, 
but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved commu- 
nity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying 
upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, 
when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh ! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects ! 
how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! 
that she is to forego all the elegancies of life, all the pleasures of society, to shrink with 
me into indigence and obscurity ! to tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere 
in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness, the light of every eye, 
the admiration of every heart ! How can she bear poverty ? She has been brought up 
in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of 
society. Oh! it will break her heart! it will break her heart!" I saw his grief was 
eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his 
paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject 
gently, and urged him to break his situation, at once, to his wife. He shook his head 
mournfully, but positively. 



58 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 



" But how are you to keep it fi-om her? It is necessary she should Jinow it, that you 
may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must chano-e 
your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let 
that afflict }'ou. I am sure 3'ou have never placed your happiness in outward show ; you 
have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with jNIary — ' ' 
"I could be happy with her" cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel ! I could go down with 
her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her — God bless her ! " cried 
he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping him warmly by the 
hand, "believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her ; it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her 
nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is, in every 
true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad da3'light of 
prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. 
No man knows what the wife of his bosom is, no man knows what a ministerino; angel she 
is, until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my 
lanoTiaffe, that cauo^ht the excited imagination of Leshe. I knew the auditor I had to deal 
with ; and, following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go 
home, and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

Washington Irving. 



THE IXGLE-SIDE. 



i^;T'S rare to see the morning bleeze, 

Like !i bonlii-e true tlie sea ; 
'It's fair to see the burnie kiss 
The lip o' the flowery lea; 
An" tine it is on green hillside, 
■\\niere hums the hinuy bee; 
But rarer, fairer, flner fair, 
Is the ingle-side to me. 



Glens may be gilt wi" gowans rare, 

The birds may till the tree. 
An' haughs ha'e a" the scented ware 

That simmer's growth can gie ; 
But the cantie hearth, where cronies meet, 

An" the darling o" our e"e. 
That makes to us a warld complete — 

Oh, the iugle-side"s for rae! 

Hew Ainslie. 



oJ-K^^o 



ONLY A BABY^ SMALL. 




fLY a baby small. 

Dropped from the skies; 
Only a laughing face. 

'IVo sunny eyes; 
Only two cherry lips, 

One chubby nose ; 
Only two little hands 

Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head. 

Curly and soft; 
Only a tongue that wags 

Loudly and oft ; 



Only a little brain. 

Empty of thought; 
Only a little heart. 

Troubled with nought. 

Onlj' a tender flower 

Sent us to rear; 
Only a life to love 

AATiile we are here; 
Only a baby small, 

Xever at rest; 
Small, but how dear to us, 

God knoweth best. 

Matthias Bakr. 



HO]ME AND FIRESIDE. 



59 



GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 



|HEY grew in beauty side by side, 
Tliey tilled oue home with glee ; 
^'^ Their graves are severed far and wide 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 
The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
She had each folded flower in sight- 
Where are those dreamers now? 



One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 
And one — o"er her the myrtle shoAvers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers, 

The last of that bright band. 




■■ One 'mid the forest of the West. 

By a diirk stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade." 



One 'mid the forests of the West, 
By a dark stream is laid ; 

The Indian knows his place of rest. 
Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- 
He lies Avhere pearls lie deep; 

He was the loved of all. yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 



And, parted thus, they rest Avho played 

Beneath the same green tree. 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent-knee ! 
They that with smiles lit up the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth • 
Alas for love, if thou wert all. 

And naught beyond, O Earth! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



60 



THE GOLDEX TEEASOIY. 



HOME COUETESY. 

f¥\^0 pleasanter sight is there than a family of young folks who are quick to perform 

oMM little acts of attention toward their elders. The placing of the big arm-chair for 

&"^p^ mamma, running for a foostool for auntie, hunting up papa's spectacles, and scores 

X of little deeds, show the tender sympathy of gentle, loving hearts ; but if mamma 

I never returns a smiling "Thank you, dear;" if papa's "Just what I was wanting, 

f Susie," does not indicate that the little attention is appreciated, the children soon 

1 drop the habit. Little people are imitative creatures, and quickly catch the spirit 

surrounding them. So if, when the mother's spool of cotton rolls from her lap, the father 

stoops to pick it up, bright eyes will see the act, and quick minds make a note of it. By 

example, a thousand times more quickly than by precept, can children be taught to speak 

kindly to each other, to acknowledge favors, to be gentle and unselfish, to be thoughtful 

and considerate of the comfort of the family. The boys, with inward pride of their 

father's courteous demeanor, will be chivalrous and helpful to their own young sisters ; the 

girls, imitating their mother, will be patient and gentle, even when big brothei's are noisy 

and heedless. In the homes where true courtesy prevails, it seems to meet yon on the 

threshold. You feel the kindly welcome on entering. No angry voices are heard up-stairs. 

No sullen children are sent from the room. Xo peremptory orders are given to cover the 

delinquencies of housekeeping or servants. A delightful atmosphere pervades the house — 

unmistakable, yet indescribable. 

Such a house, filled by the spirit of love, is a home indeed to all who enter within its 
consecrated walls. And it is of such a home that the Master said : "And into whatsoever 
house ye enter, first say, Peace be to this house. And if the Son of Peace be there, your 
peace shall rest upon it." 

" Blest are the sons of peace, 

■\^'liose hearts and hopes are one ; 
Whose kind designs to serve and please, 
Thi'ough all their actions run. 

" Thus on the heavenly hills, 
The saints are blessed above ; 
\Miere joy like morning dew distills, 
And all the air is love." 



o>«.^^>«<o 



ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME ? 



?^^ACH day, when the glow of sunset 

Fades in the western sky. 
' And the wee ones, tired of playing. 

Go tripping lightly by. 
I steal away from my husband, 

Asleep in his easy chair. 
And watch from the open doom^aj" 

Their faces fresh and fair. 



Alone in the dear old homestead 

That once was fuU of life. 
Ringing with girlish laughter, 

Echoing boyish sti-ife. 
We two are waitinof together: 

And oft, as the shadows come. 
With tremulous voice he calls me, 

"It is night! are the children home?"' 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



61 



"Yes, love!"' I answer him gently, 

"They're all home long ago ;" — 
And I sing, in my quivering treble, 

A song so soft and low, 
Till the old man drops to slmnber, 

With his head upon his hand. 
And I tell to myself the number 

At home in the better land. 

At home, where never a sorrow 

Shall dim their eyes with tears ! 
Where the smile of God is on them 

Through all the summer years ! 
I know — ^yet my arms are empty, 

That fondly folded seven, 
And the mother-heart within me 

Is almost starved for heaven. 

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, 

I only shut my eyes. 
And the children are all about me, 

A vision from the skies : 
The babes whose dimpled fingers 

Lost the way to my breast, 
And the beautiful ones, the angels. 

Passed to the world of the blest. 



With never a cloud upon them, 

I see their radiant brows ; 
My boys that I gave to freedom— 

The red sword sealed their vows ! 
In a tangled southern forest. 

Twin brothers bold and brave. 
They fell; and the flag they died for. 

Thank God! floats over their grave. 

A breath, and the vision is lifted 

Away on wings of liglit, 
And again we Uvo are together, 

All alone in the night. 
They tell me his mind is failing, 

But I smile at idle fears ; 
He is only back with the children, 

In the dear and peaceful years. 

And still, as the summer sunset 

Fades away in the west. 
And the wee ones, tired of playing, 

Go trooping home to rest, 
My husband calls from his corner, 

"Say, love, have the children come?" 
And 1 answer, with ej^es ujalifted, 

"Yes, dear! they are all at home.'" 

Margaret E. M. Sangster. 






-a-'Sj-S- 




CO]SrVEESATIO^. 

|MONG home amusements the best is the good old habit of conversation, the 
talking over the events of the day, in bright and quick play of wit and fancy, 
the story which brings the laugh, and the speaking the good and kind and true 
things, which all have in their hearts. It is not so much by dwelling upon what 
members of the family have in common, as bringing each to the other something 
' intei-esting and amusing, that home-life is to be made cheerful and joyous. Each 

one must do his part to make conversation genial and happy. "VVe are too ready to 
converse with newspapers and books, to seek some companion at the store, hotel or club- 
room, and to forget that home is anything more than a place to sleep and eat in. The 
i-evival of conversation, the entertainment of one another, as a roomful of people will 
entertain themselves, is one secret of a happy home. "Wherever it is wanting, disease has 
struck into the root of the tree ; there is a want which is felt with increasing force as time 
goes on. Conversation, in many cases, is just what prevents many people from relapsing 
into utter selfishness at their firesides. This conversation should not simply occupy 
husband and wife, and other older members of the family, but extend itself to the children. 
Parents should be careful to talk with them, to enter into their life, to share their trifles, to 
assist in their studies, to meet them in the thoughts and feelings of their childhood. It is 
a great step in education, when around the evening lamp are gathered the different members 



62 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



of a family, sharing their occupation with one another — the older assisting the younger, 
each one contributiuof to the entertainment of the other, and all feelino; that the evenins: has 
passed only too rapidly away. This is the truest and best amusement. It is the healthy 
education of great and noble characters. There is the freedom, the breadth, the joyous- 
ness of natural life. The time spent thus by parents, in the higher entertainment of their 
children, bears a harvest of eternal blessings, and these long evenings furnish just the 
time. 



IF I COULD KEEP HER SO. 



, rH7^ 



; UST a little baby, lying in my arms — 

; Would that I coiild keep you with your baby 

charms ; 
Helpless, eliuging fingers, dowuy. golden hair. 
Where the sunshine lingers, caught fi-om other- 
where ; 
Blue eyes asking questions, lips that cannot speak, 
Rolh'-poUy shoulders, dimple on your cheek ; 
Daintj' little blossom in a world of woe. 
Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. 

Roguish little damsel, scarcelj' six years old — 
Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold ; 
Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play. 
Tongue that never ceases talking all the da\' ; 
Blue eyes learning wonders of the world about, 
Here you come to tell them — what an eager shout ! 
Winsome little damsel, all the neighbors know; 
Thus I long to keep you, for I love j'ou so. 

Sober little school-girl, with your bag of books. 
And such grave importance in j'our puzzled looks; 
Solving weary problems, poring over sums. 
Yet ^vith tooth for sponge-cake and for sugar-plums ; 



Reading books of romance in yoiu- bed at night. 
Waking up to study with the morning light; 
Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow, 
Full of conti-adictious — I would keep you so. 

Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by my side. 
All the world's before you. and the world is wide; 
Hearts are there for winning, hearts are there to 

break. 
Has your own. shy maiden, just begun to wake? 
Is that rose of dawning glowing on your cheek 
Telling us in blushes what you will not speak? 
Shy and tender maiden. I would fain forego 
All the golden future, just to keep you so. 

Ah ! the listening angels saw that she was fair. 
Ripe for rare unfolding in the upper air; 
N"ow the rose of dawning turns to lily white. 
And the close-shut eyelids veil the ej^es from sight; 
All the past I summou as I kiss her brow — 
Babe and child and maiden, all are with me now. 
Oh! my heart is breaking; but God's love I know — 
Safe among the angels, He will keep her so. 

LociSE Chajtdler Moulton. 



XO BABY IX THE HOUSE. 



^■^O baby in the house I know, 
"Tis far too nice and clean. 
iXo toys, by careless fingers strewn. 

Upon the floors are seen. 
I No finger-marks are on the panes, 
Xo scratches on the chairs; 
No wooden men set up in rows. 

Or marshalled off in pairs; 
Xo little stockings to be darned. 
All ragged at the toes ; 



Xo pile of mending to be done. 

Made up of baby-clothes: 
Xo little troubles to be soothed; 

Xo little hands to fold; 
Xo grimy fingers to be washed; 

Xo stories to be told ; 
Xo tender kisses to be given; 

Xo nicknames — "Dove." and "Mouse; 
Xo merry frolics after tea — 

Xo baby in the house ! 

Claka G. Dolliver. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



(J3 




'Sober little school-girl, with your bag of books." 



64 



THE GOLD EX TEEASUKY. 





:mothees of distinguished mek 

IMOTHY, from a child, knew the Scriptures, being taught them by his 
mother and his grandmother. 

Dr. Dodridge's mother taught him the history of the Old and New 
Testaments before he could read. This was done by means of Dutch 
tiles in the chimne3^ Her wise and pious reflections upon the stories 
there represented, made good impressions on his mind ; and he never 
lost them . 

Bishop Hall says that he could bless the memory of his mother, who 
taught him so much divine truth, and gave him so many pious lectures. 

J. S. C. Abbott says, in his "Mother at Home," that in a college 
where one hundred and twenty young men were preparing for the minis- 
try, it was found that more than one hundred had been led to Christ by 
their mothers. 

John Eandolph, of Roanoke, was deeply attached to his mother, and 
'^ her death had a melancholy and striking effect upon him ever after- 

wards. She was but thirty-six years old when she died. Cut off in the bloom of j'outh 
and beauty, he always retained a vivid remembrance of her person, her charms, and her 
virtues. He always kept her portrait hanging before him in his chamber. The loss to 
him was irrepai-able. She knew him — she knew the delicacy of his heart, the waj'wardness 
and irritability of his temper. " I am a fatalist," said he, " I am all but friendless — only 
one human being ever knew me. She only knew me — my mother." He always spoke 
of her in terms of the warmest affection. Many and many a time during his life did he 
visit the old churchyard at jMatoax, in its wasted solitude, and shed tears over the grave of 
his mother, by whose side it was the last wish of his heart to be buried. 

Henry Clay, the pride and honor of his country, alwaj^s expressed feelings of pro- 
found affection and veneration for his mother. A habitual correspondence and enduring 
affection subsisted between them to the last hour of life. Mr. Clay ever spoke of her as a 
model of maternal character and female excellence, and it is said that he never met his 
constituents in Woodford county, after her death, without some allusion to her, which 
deeply affected both him and his audience. And nearly the last words uttered by this 
great statesman, when he came to die, were, "Mother, mother, mother." It is natural 
for us to feel that she must have been a good mother, that was loved and so dutifuUy 
served by such a boy, and that neither could have been wanting in rare virtues. 

Benjamin Franklin was accustomed to refer to his mother in the tenderest tone of 
filial affection. His respect and affection for her were manifested, among other ways, in 
frequent presents, that contributed to her comfort and solace in her advancing j^ears. In 
one of his letters to her, for example, he sends her a moidore, a gold piece of the value of 
six dollars, " toward chaise hire," said he, " that you may ride warm to meetings during 
the winter." In another he gives her an account of the growth and improvement of his 
son and daughtei- — topics which, as he well understood, are ever as dear to the grand- 
mother as to the mother. 



HOME AXD FIRESIDE. 65 

Thomas Gray, author of "Elegy in a Country Chui'chyard," was most assiduous in 
his attentions to his mother while she lived, and, after her death, he cherished her memory 
with sacred sorrow. Mr. Mason informs us that Gray seldom mentioned his mother 
without a sigh. The inscription which he placed over her remains speaks of her as " the 
careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive 
her." How touching is this brief tribute of grateful love ! Volumes of eulogy could not 
increase our admiration of the gentle being to whom it was paid — her patient devotion, her 
meek endurance. Wherever the name and genius of Gray are known, there shall also his 
mother's virtues be told for a memorial of her. He was buried, according to his directions, 
by the side of his mother, in the churchyard at Stoke. After his death her gowns and 
wearing apparel were found in a trunk in his apartments, just as she had left them. It 
seemed as if he could never take the resolution to open it, in order to distribute them to 
his female relations, to whom, by his will, he bequeathed them. 

Amos Lawrence always spoke of his mother in the strongest terms of veneration and 
love, and in many letters to his children and grandchildren, ai"e found messages of affec- 
tionate I'egard for his mother, such as could have emanated only fi-om a heart overflowing 
with filial gratitude. Her form, bending over his bed in silent prayer, at the hour of 
twilight, when she was about leaving him for the night, was among the earliest and most 
cherished recollections of his early years and his childhood's home. 

Sergeant S. Prentiss inherited from his mother those more gentle qualities that ever 
characterized his life — qualities that shed over his eloquence such bewitching sweetness, and 
gave to his social intercoui'se such an indescribable charm. A remarkably characteristic 
anecdote illustrates his filial affection. When on a visit, some years ago, to the North, but 
after his reputation had become wide-spread, a distinguished lady, of Portland, Me., took 
pains to obtain an introduction, by visiting the steamboat in which she learned he was to 
take his departure in a few moments. 

"I have wished to see you," said she to Mr. Prentiss, "for my heart has often 
congratulated the mother who has such a son." " Rather congi-atulate the son on having 
such a mother," was his instant and heartfelt reply. This is but one of the many instances 
in which the most distinguished men of all ages have been proud to refer to the early 
culture of intellect, the promptings of virtue, or the aspirations of piety, and to the 
influence of tlie mother's early training. 

General Francis Marion was once a plodding young farmer, and in no way distinguished 
as superior to the young men of the neighborhood in which he lived, except for his devoted 
love and marked respect for his excellent mother, and exemplary honor and truthfulness. 
In these qualities he was eminent from early childhood, and they marked his character 
through life. We may remark, in this connection, that it is usual to affect some degree of 
astonishment when we read of men whose after fame presents a striking contrast to the 
humility of their origin ; yet we must recollect that it is not ancestry and splendid descent, 
but education and circumstances, which form the man. It is often a matter of surprise 
that distinguished men have such inferior children, and that a great name is seldom perpet- 
uated. The secret of this is as often evident: the mothers have been inferior — mere 
ciphers in the scale of existence. All the splendid advantages procured by wealth and the 
father's position, cannot supply this one deficiency in the mother, who gives character to 
the child. 



G6 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Sam Houston's mother wa« an extraordinary woman. She was distinguished by a full, 
rather tall and matronly form, a fine carriage, and an impressive and dignified countenance. 
She was gifted with intellectual and moral qualities, which elevated her, in a still more 
striking manner, above most of her sex. Her life shone with purity and benevolence, and 
yet she was nerved with a stern fortitude, which never gave way in the midst of the wild 
scenes that checkered the history of the frontier settlers. iNIrs. Houston was left with the 
heavy burden of a numerous family. She had six sons and three daughters, but she was 
not a woman to succumb to misfortune, and she made ample provision, for one in her 
circumstances, for their future care and education. To bring up a large famih' of children 
in a proper manner is, under the most favorable circumstances, a great work ; and in this 
case it rises into sublimity ; for there is no finer instance of heroism than that of one 
parent, especially a mother, laboring for that end alone. The excellent woman, says 
Goethe, is she who, if her husband dies, can be a father to her children. 

As wife and mother, a woman is seen in her most sacred and dignified character, 
as such she has great influence over the characters of individuals, over the condition 
of families, and over the destinies of empires. It is a fact that many of our noblest 
patriots, our most profound scholars, and our holiest ministers, were stimulated to their 
excellence and usefulness by those holy principles which they derived in early years from 
pious mothers. 

Our mothers are our earliest instructors, and they have an influence over us, the 
importance of which, for time and eternity, surpasses the power of language to describe. 

Every mother should be a Sabbath-school teacher. Her own children should be her 
class ; and her home should be her school-house. Then her children will bless her for 
her tenderness and care ; for her pious instructions, her fervent prayers, and the holy 
example . 



<.>o<^^o=^o 



NOT ONE TO SPARE. 




y I looked at John — John looked at me 
^^'?;;^ (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 

As well as though my locks were jet) ; 
. And when I found that I must speak. 

My voice seemed strangely low and weak. 

'•Tell me again what Robert said," 
And then I, listening, bent my head. 
"This is his letter : •! will give 
A house and laud while you shall live, 
If, in return, from out your seven. 
One child to me for a}'e is given." '' 
I looked at John's old garments worn, 
I thought of all that John had borne 
Of povert\' and work and care, 
"VMiich I, though willing, could not share; 
I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
Of seven little children's need. 
And then of this. ''Come, John," said I. 



"We'll choose among them as they lie 
Asleep;'" so walking hand in baud. 
Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
"S\Tiere the new nameless baby slept. 
"Shall it be baby?"" whispered John; 
I took his hand and hurried on 
To Lilian"s crib. Her sleeping grasp 
Held her old doll within its clasp ; 
Her dark curls lay, like gold alight, 
A glory "gainst the pillow white. 
Softly the father stooped to lay 
His rough hand down in loving way, 
"UTien dream or whisper made her stir. 
And huskily he said, "Xot her I"" 
'We stopped beside the trundle-bed. 
And one long ray of lamplight shed 
Athwart the boyish faces there. 
In sleep, so pitiful and fair; 



HOME A^^D FLRESIDE. 



67 



I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 

A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

"He's hut a haby, too," said I, 

And kissed him as we hui-ried by. 

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 

"No, for a thousand crowns, not him!" 

We whispered, while our eyes were dim. 

Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son. 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 

Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave 

Bids us befriend him to his grave; 

Only a mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he ; 

"And so," said John, "I would not dare 

To send him from our bedside prayer." 

Then stole we softly up above 

And knelt by Mary, child of love. 



"Perhaps for her 't would better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a cui-1 that lay 

Across her cheek in wilful way, 

And shook his head; "Nay, love; not thee," 

The while my heart heart audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad. 

Trusty and ti-uthful, good and glad — 

So like his father. "No John, no, 

I cannot, will not, let him go." 

And so we wrote, in courteous way. 

We could not give one child away ; 

And aftei'ward toil lighter seemed. 

Thinking of that of which we dreamed, 

Happy in truth that not one face 

Was missed from its accustomed place ; 

Thanlrful to work for all the seven, 

Trusting the rest to one in heaven. 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 




MOTHERS AI^D SOI^S. 

f^irir^OST boys go through a period, when they have great need of patient love at 
home. They are awkward and clumsy, sometimes strangely wilful and perverse, 
and they are desperately conscious of themselves, and very sensitive to the least 
word of censure or effort at restraint. Authority frets them. They are leaving 
childhood, but they have not yet reached the sober good sense of manhood. They 
are an easy prey to the tempter and the sophist. Perhaps they adopt skeptical 
views, from sheer desire to prove that they are independent, and can do their own thinking. 
Now is the mother's hour. Her boy needs her now more than when he lay in his cradle. 
Her finer insight and serener faith may hold him fast and prevent his drifting into 
dangerous courses. At all events there is very much that only a mother can do for her 
son, and that a son can receive only from his mother, in the critical period of which we 
are thinking. It is well for him, if she have kept the freshness and brightness of her 
youth, so that she can now be his companion and friend as well as mentor. It is a good 
thing for a boy to be proud of his mother ; to feel com'placent when he introduces her to 
his comrades, knowing that they cannot help seeing what a pretty woman she is, so 
graceful, winsome, and attractive ! There is always hope for a boy when he admires his 
mother, and mothers should care to be admirable in the eyes of their sons — not merely 
to possess characters worthy of respect, but to be beautiful and charming, so far as they 
can, in person and appearance. The neat dress, the becoming ribbon, and smooth hair, 
are all worth thinking about, when regarded as means of retaining influence over a 
soul, when the world is spreading lures for it on every side. 

Above all things, mothers need faith. Genuine, hearty, loving trust in God, a life of 
meek, glad, acquiescence in His will, lived daily through years in the presence of sons, is 
an immense power. They never can get away from the sweet memory that Christ was 
their mother's friend. There is a reality in that which no false reasoning can persuade 
them to regard as a figment of the imagination. 



68 



THE GOLDEX TEEASLTRY. 



MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 



IHEEE'S a little low hut by the river's side, 
Withiu the sound of its rippliug tide ; 
Its walls are grey with the mosses of years, 
And its roof all crumbled and old appears ; 
'^" But fairer to me than castle's pride 

Is the little low hut bj' the river's side! 

ITie little low hut was my natal rest, 

\VTien my childhood passed — Life's springtime blest; 

"WTiere the hopes of ardent j-outh were formed, 

And the sun of promise my young heart wai-med, 

Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide. 

And left the dear hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut, in lowly guise, 
Was soft and grand to mj' youthful eyes. 
And fairer trees were ne'er known before, 
Than the apple-trees by the humble door — 
That my father loved for their thrifty pride — 
That shadowed the hut by the river's side. 

Tliat little low hut had a glad hearthstone. 
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone. 
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, 
Filled the hours with pleasure as on thej' flew; 
But one bj' one the loved ones died. 
That d^-elt in the hut bv the river's side. 



The father revered and the children gay 

ITie graves of the world have caUed away : 

But quietly, all alone, here sits 

By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, 

An aged woman, long years allied 

With the little low hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut to the lonely wife 
Is the cherished stage of her active life ; 
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam. 
As she sits bj' the window in pensive dream 
And joys and woes roll back like a tide 
In that little low hut hy the river's side. 

My mother — alone by the liver's side 

She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide. 

And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call 

To meet once more with the dear ones all. 

And forms in a region beautified. 

The band that once met by the river's side. 

The dear old hut by the river's side 

With the warmest pulse of mj' heart is allied — 

And a glorj' is over its dark walls thro^^-n. 

That statelier fabrics have never known — 

And I shall love with a fonder pride 

That little low hut by the river's side. 

B. P. Shillaber (Mks. Partington). 



RAIISr ON THE ROOF. 



fllEX the humid shadows hover 

Over all tlie starry spheres, 
And the melancholj- darkness 

Gently weeps in rainj' tears, 
■\\Tiat a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Eveiy tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start. 
And a thousand recollections 

AVeave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Xow in memory comes m.v mother 

As she used long years agone. 
To regard the darliug dreamers 

Ere she left then till the dawn; 
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
■\A1iich is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 



Then mj- little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hail 
And her star-eyed cherub brother 

A serene angelic pair I— 
Glide around my wakeful pillow. 

With their ijraise or mild reproo 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And I mind not, musing on her, 

Tliat her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain. 
And my heart's quick jiulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's iU5-sterious fountains. 

"WTience the tears of rapture well 
As that melody of nature, 

Tliat subdued, subduing sti'ain 
AMiich is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

COATES KlXXEY, 



HOME AND FIEESIDE. 



G9 



HOME SHADOWS. 



€ 



■ (W,V:W.a?a.'»;^^gV 




.'A^.-^<-^<f^'^y3s^ 




RIENDS, I wonder whether we have any deep consciousness of the shad- 
ows we are weaving about our children in the home ; whether we ever ask 
ourselves, if, in the far future, when we are dead and gone, the shadow 
our home casts now will stretch over them for bane or blessing. It is 
possible we are full of anxiety to do our best, and to make our homes 
sacred to the children. We want them to come up right, to turn out 
good men and women, to be an honor and praise to the home out of 
which they sprang. But this is the pity and the danger, that, while we 
may not come short in any real duty of father and mother, we may yet 
cast no healino- and sacramental shadow over the child. Believe me, friends, it was not in 
the words he said, in the pressure of the hand, in the kiss, that the blessing lay Jesus gave 
to the little ones, when he took them in his arms. So it is not in these, but in the shadow 
of my innermost, holiest self ; in that which is to us what the perfume is to the flower, a 
soul within the soul, — it is that which, to the child, and in the home, is more than the 
tonone of men or angels, or prophecy or knowledge, or faith that will move mountains, or 
devotion that will give the body to be burned. I look back with wonder on that old time, 
and ask myself how it is that most of the things, I suppose, that my father and mother 
built on especially to mould me to a right manhood are forgotten and lost out of my life. 
But the thing they hardly ever thought of, — the shadow of blessing cast by the home ; the 
tender, unspoken love ; the sacrifices made, and never thought of, it was so natural to 
make them ; ten thousand little things, so simple as to attract no notice, and yet so sublime 
as I look back at them, — they fill my heart still and always with tenderness, when I 
remember them, and my eyes with tears. All these things, and all that belong to them, 
still come over me, and cast the shadow that forty years, many of them lived in a new 
world, cannot destroy. 

I fear, few parents know what a supreme and holy thing is this shadow cast by the 
home, over, especially, the first seven years of this life of the child. I think the influence 
that comes in this way is the very breath and bread of life. I may do other things for duty, 
or principle, or religious training ; they are all, by comparison, as when I cut and trim and 
train a vine ; and, when I let the sun shine and the rain fall on it, the one may aid the 
life ; the other is the life. Steel and string are each good in their place ; but what are they 
to sunshine? It is said that a child, hearing once of heaven, and that his father would be 
there, replied, " Oh ! then, I dinna want to gang." He did but express the holy instinct 
of a child, to whom the father may be all that is good, except just goodness, — be all any 
child can want, except what is indispensable — that gracious atmosphere of blessing in the 
healins: shadow it casts, without which even heaven would come to be intolerable. 

Egbert Collyer, 



s-v-sa^^ 



If the home-life is inharmonious, nothing can go well. The root of all, unless this 
is wholesome and firm, the flower must needs be poor and the fruit bad. Let us learn 
again the infinite importance of keeping the peace at home, and the need of cultivating 
the nobler qualities of mind and heart, if this is to be done well. 



70 



THE GOLD EX TEEASUEY. 



BAIEXIES, CUDDLE DOON. 



^HE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wr inuekle f aucht an" diu' ; 
► " Oh trj' and sleep, ye Avanki-if rogues, 

Your feyther's comin' in I"' 
They dinua hear a word I speak; 

I tiy an" gie a fro'\\Ti, 
But aye I hap them up and ciy, 
•• O bairnies, cuddle doon I"' 

"Wee Jaimie, wi" the curly heid, 

He aye sleeps next the wa". 
Bangs up and cries, •■ I want a piece'*' 

Tlie rascal starts them a* ! 
I riu an" fetch them pieces — drinks — 

Thej' stop a -wee the souu", 
Tlien draw the blankets up and ciy 

"O Aveanies, cuddle doon I"' 

But scarce five minutes gang, wee Eab 

Cries out frae neath the claes : 
"blither, uiak Tarn gie ower at ance! 

He"s kittlin wi" his taesi"" 
The mischiefs in that Tam for tricks. 

He "d baither half the touu; 
But still I hap them up and cry, 

'• O bairnies. cuddle dooul"' 



At length they hear their feyther"s step. 

And as he nears the door 
They draw their blankets o'er theii" heids. 

And Tam pretiuds to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been guid"?"' he asks, 

As he pits off his shoon : 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds-, 

And lang .since cuddled doon." 

And just afore we bed oursels 

We look at our Avee lambs; 
Tam has his airm round wee Eab"s neck. 

And Eab his airm round Tam"s. 
I lift wee Jaimie up the bed. 

And as I straik each crown, 
I whisper, till my hairt fills up, 

'•O bairnies, cuddle dooni"" 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

■\Vi' mirth that"s dear to me. 
For sure the big warFs cark an' care 

AVill quaten doon their glee. 
But coom what will to ilka ane, 

^lay he who sits abune 
Aye whispei-, tho' their pows be bald, 

"O bairnies, cuddle dooul"" 

Al-EXAXDER AXDERSOX. 



OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 




AY doAATi upon de Swanee Eibber, 
2 Far, far away — 
Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber — 

Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation. 

Sadly I roam; 
Still longing for de old plantation. 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb"r\"\vhere I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from de old folks at home. 



All round do little farm I wandered. 
When I was young ; 



Den many happy days I squandered. 

Many de songs I sung. 
"VMien I was playing wid my brudder, 

Happy Avas I ; 
Oh! take me to my kind old mudder! 

Dare let me live and die I 

One little hut among de bushes — 

One dat I love — 
Still sadly to my memory rushes, 

Xo matter where I rove. 
"When will I see de bees a-humming. 

All round de comb? 
"When \nU. I hear de banjo tumming 

Down in my good old home? 

Stephen Collins Foster. 



^^■^1^' 



HOME, SAVEET HOME. 



ID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ! 
.V charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
"Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met 
with elsewhere. 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ' 



An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! 
The birds singing gaily that came at my call — 
Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all ! 

Home! home! sweet, sweet home! 

There's no place like home ! 

.John Howard Patnts. 



HOME AXD FIRESIDE. 



71 



c<-V(3^. 



A COUETEOLTS MOTHER. 




hottest days, I had the 
near a mother and four 



URING the whole of one of last summer's 
good fortune to be seated in a railway car 

children, whose relations with each other were so beautiful that the 
pleasure of watching them was quite enough to make one forget the 
discomforts of the journey. It was plain that they were poor ; their 
clothes were coarse and old, and had been made by inexperienced hands. 
The mother's bonnet alone would have been enough to have condemned 
the whole party on any of the v/orld's thoroughfares ; but her face was 
one which gave you a sense of rest to look upon — it was so earnest, 
tender, true and strong. The children — two boys and two girls — were 
all under the age of twelve, and the youngest could not speak 
plainly. 

They had had a rare treat. They had been visiting the mountains, and they were 
talk] no- over all the wonders they had seen with a glow of enthusiastic delight which v/as 
to be envied. In the course of the day, there were many occasions when it was necessary 
for her to deny requests, and to ask services, especially from the oldest boy ; but no 
young girl, anxious to please a lover, could have done either with a more tender courtesy. 
She had her reward, for no lover could have been more tender and manly than was this 
boy of twelve. 

Their lunch was simple and scanty ; but it had the graces of a royal banquet. At the 
last the mother produced three apples and an orange, of which the children had not known. 
All eyes fastened on the orange. It was evidently a great rarity. I watched to see if this 
test would bring out selfishness. There was a little silence — ^just the shade of a cloud. 
The mother said : "How shall I divide this? There is one for each of you, and I shall be 
best off of all, for I expect big tastes from each," "Oh, give Annie the orange ; Annie 
loves oranges," spoke out the oldest boy, with the sudden air of a conqueror, at the same 
time taking the smallest and worst apple himself. " Oh, yes, let Annie have the orange," 
echoed the second boy, nine years old. "Yes, Annie may have the orange, because that 
is nicer than the apples, and she is a lady, and her brothers are gentlemen," said the 
mother, quietly. 

Then there was a merry contest as to who should feed the mother with the largest and 
most frequent mouthfuls. Annie pretended to want apple, and exchanged thin, golden 
strips of orange for bites out of the cheeks of Baldwins. As I sat watching her intently, 
she sprang over to me, saying ; "Don't you want a taste, too?" The mother smiled under- 
standingly, when I said : "No, I thank you, you dear, generous little girl ; I don't care 
about oranges." 

At noon, we had a tedious interval of waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two 
hours on a narrow platform, which the sun had scorched till it smelt of heat. The oldest 
boy held the youngest child, and talked to her, while the tired mother closed her eyes and 
rested. The two other children were toiling up and down the banks of the raih'oad track 
picking ox-eye daisies, buttercups and sorrel. They worked like beavers, and soon the 
bunches were almost too big for their little hands. Then they came running to give them 



72 THE GOLDEX TREASURY 

to their mother, "Oh, dear," thought I, "how that poor, tireci woman will hate to open 
her eyes ! She never can take those great bunches of common, fading flowers, in addition 
to all her bundles and bags." I was mistaken. "Oh, thank you, my darlings! How 
kind you are ! Poor, hot, tired little flowers — how thirsty they look ! If they will only 
keep alive till we get home, we will make them very happy in some water, won't we? 
And you shall put one bunch by papa's plate and one by mine." 

She took great trouble to get a string and tie up the flowers ; and then the train came, 
and we were whirling along again. Soon it grew dark, and little Annie's head nodded. 
Then I heard the mother say to the oldest boy : "Dear, are you too tired to let little Annie 
put her head on your shoulder and take a nap ? We shall get her home in much better 
case to see papa, if we can manage to give her a little sleep." How many boys of twelve 
hear such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers? Soon came the citjs the final 
station, with its bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my happy famil}'^, hoping to see the 
father. "Why, papa isn't here !" exclaimed one disappointed voice after another. "Never 
mind," said the mother, with a still deeper disappointment in her tone ; "perhaps he had 
to go to see some poor body who is sick." 

In the hurry of picking up all the parcels, the poor daisies and buttercups were left 
forgotten in a corner of the rack. I wondered if the mother had not intended this. May 
I be forgiven for the injustice ! A few minutes after, I passed the little group, standing 
still, just outside the station, and heard the mother say: "Oh, my darlings, I have 
forgotten your pretty flowers. I am so sorry ! I wonder if I could find them, if I went 
back. Will you all stand still and not stir from this spot, if I go?" " Oh, mamma, don't 
go, don't go. We will get 3'ou some more. Don't go," cried all the children. "Here 
are your flowers, madam," said I. "I saw that you had forgotten them, and I took them 
as mementos of you and your sweet children." She blushed and looked disconcerted. 
She was evidently unused to people, and shy with all but her children. However, she 
thanked me sweetly, and said: "I was very sorry about them. The children took such 
trouble to get them ; and I think they will revive in water. They cannot be quite dead." 
" They will never die !" said I, with an emphasis which went from my heart to hers. 
Then all her shyness fled. She knew me ; and we shook hands, and smiled into each 
other's eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted. 

As I followed on, I heard the two children, who were walking behind, saying to each 
other: "Wouldn't that have been too bad? Mamma liked them so much, and we never 
could have got so many all at once again." " Yes, we could, too, next summer," said the 
boy, sturdily. They are sure of their "next summers," I think, all six of those souls — 
children, and mother, and father. They may never again gather so many daisies and 
buttercups "all at once." Perhaps some of the little hands have already picked their last 
flowers. Nevertheless, their summers are certain. Heaven bless them all, wherever 
they are ! 

Helex Huxt. 

^~ 2^J>2 ^ 

Ix the man whose childhood has known tender caresses, there is a fibre of memorj- 
which can be touched to gentle issues. 



HOME AXD FIRESIDE. 



7o 



BE KIND. 



I^^E kind to thy father, for when thou wast young, 
Who loved thee as fondly as he? 
[e caught the first accents that fell from thy 

tongue. 
And joined in thine innocent glee. 
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, 

His locks intermingled with gray. 
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and hold; 
Thy father is passing away. 

Be kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her brow , 

May traces of sorrow be seen : 
Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now. 

For loving and kind hath she been. 
Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray 

As long as God giveth her breath ; 
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone waj^. 

E'en to the dark valley of death. 



Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth. 

If the smile of thy love bt^ Avithdrawn ; 
The rtowers of feeling will fade at their birth. 

If the dew of affection be gone. 
Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are, 

The love of a brother shall be 
An ornament, purer and richer by far, 

Than i^earls from the depths of the sea. 

Be kind to thy sister, not many may know 

The depth of true sisterly love ; 
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below 

The siu-face that sparkles above. 
Thy kindness shall bring to thee mauj' sweet 
hours. 

And blessings thy pathwaj^ to crown, 
Affection shall weave thee a garland of liowers. 

More precious than wealth or renown. 



MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 



^j|(|HE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky' home ; 
^^k 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay ; 
' Y. The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the 

^ bloom. 

While the birds make music all the day ; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor. 

All merry, all happ)', all bright ; 
By'm bj"^ hard times comes a knockin' at the door — 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more 

to-day! 
We'll sing one song for the old Kentuckj^ home. 
For om- old Kentucky home far away. 

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon. 
On the meadow, the hill and the shore ; 



They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon. 

On the bench by the old cabin door ; 
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, 

With sorrow, where all was delight ; 
The time has come when the darkeys have to part^ 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend. 

Wherever the darkey may go ; 
A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow; 
A few more days to tote the weary load. 

No matter, it will never be light; 
A few more days till we totter on the road. 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

Stephen Collins Foster. 



MOTHEES, SPAEE YOTJBSELTES. 

|,^ 'ANY a mother grows old, faded, and feeble long before her time, because her boys 
^^^i and girls are not thoughtfully considerate and helpful. When they become old 
'^ 'i' '' enough to be of service in a household, mother has become so used to doing all 
herself, to taking upon her shoulders all the care, that she forgets to lay off the burden 
little by little, on those who are so Avell able to bear it. It is partly her own fault, to be 
sure, but a fault committed out of love and mistaken kindness for her children. 




74 



THE GOLDEX TEEASITIY. 



IN A STRANGE LAND. 




to be home again, home again, home again ! 
Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill; 
[other is calling me, father is calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh. how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the hill ; 



Sisters are calling me. brothers are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me stiU. 

Oh, once more to be home again, home again. 
Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill — 

Do you not hear how the voices are calling me. 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still? 

James Thomas Fields. 



o>«^N^o 




THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET. 




IIPIpP with the sun in the morning, 
^' ^ Away to the garden he hies. 
To see if the sleeping blossoms 
Have begun to open their eyes. 

Running a race with the wind, 
"With a step as light and fleet, 

Under my window I hear 
ITie patter of little feet. 

Now to the brook he Avanders, 

lu swift and noiseless flight. 
Splashing the sparkling ripples 

Like a faiiy water-si^rite. 

No sand imder fabled river 

Has gleams like his golden hair. 

No pearler sea-shell is fairer 
ITian his slender ankles bare. 

Nor the rosiest stem of corul, 

That blushes in ocean's bed. 
Is sweet as the flash that follows 

Our darling's airj' ti-ead. 

From a bi'oad window my neighbor, 

Looks down on our little cot. 
And watches the ''poor man's blessing"— 

I cannot emy his lot. 

He has pictures, books, and music, 
Bright fountains, and noble ti-ees, 

Earc store of blossoming roses. 
Birds from beyond the seas. 



But never does childish laughter 
His homeward footsteps greet; 

Ilis stately halls ne'er echo 
To the ti-ead of innocent feet. 

UTais child is our "sparkling picture," 
A birdling that chatters and sings, 

Sometimes a sleeping cherub, 
(Oiu- other one has wings.) 

His heart is a charmed casket. 

Full of all that's cunning and sweet, 

And no harpstring holds such music 
As follows his twdnkling feet. 

■\Mien the glory of sunset opens 
The highway by angels ti'od. 

And seems to imbar the city 
"Whose builder and maker is God — 

Close to the ciystal portal, 

I see bj' the gates of pearl, 
The eyes of our other angel — 

A twin-born little girl. 

And I ask to be taught and directer" 
To guide his footsteps aright; 

So to live that I maj' be ready 
To walk in sandals of light — 

And hear, amid songs of welcome. 
From messengers ti'usty and fleet. 

On the stany floor of heaven. 
The patter of little feet. 



HOME AXD FIEESIDE. 



75 






MT MOTHEE'S BIBLE. 





N one of the shelves in my library, surrounded by volumes of all 
kinds, on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an old 
book, in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the 
eye, and apparently out of place among the more pretentious volumes 
that stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it has certainly 
neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred 
by long use ; its pages, once white, have become yellow with age ; 
yet, old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and most 
valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens such associations, or so appeals to alj 
that is best and noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's Bible — companion 
of her best and holiest hours, source of her unspeakable joy and consolation. From it 
she derived the principles of a truly Chi'istian life and character. It was the light to her 
feet and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, as her steps tottered 
in the advancing pilgrimage of life, and her eyes grew dim with age, more and more 
precious to her became the well-worn pages. 

One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the coming Sabbath, the 
aged pilo'rim passed on beyond the stars and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest 
of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon the face of Him of whom the law and the prophets 
had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me 
more precious than that old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on the shelf, 
eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a silent monitor to the 
livino-. In hours of trial and sorrow, it says : " Be not cast down, my son ; for thou shalt 
yet praise Him who is the health of thy countenance and thy God." In moments of 
weakness and fear it says, "Be strong now, my son, and quit yourself manfully." When, 
sometimes, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary 
of the world and tired of men — of men that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is 
so unfeeling — and the strings of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem to 
hear that Book saying, as with the well-remembered tones of a voice long silent : " Let not 
your heart be troubled. For what is your life? It is even as a vapor." Then my 
troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little woild, that had grown so great and formid- 
able, sinks in its true place again. I am peaceful, I am strong. 

There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or open it. A glance of 
the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association supply the rest. Yet thei-e are 
occasions when it is otherwise ; hours in life when some deeper gi'ief has troubled the 
heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a 
comfort to take down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest 
editions, the original languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the critical apparatus 
which the scholar gathers around him for the study of the Scriptures are laid aside ; and 
the plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken from the shelf. 

Bishop Gilbert Haven. 



76 



THE GOLD EX TREASUEY. 



A HOME PICTUEE. 



Ig^EN Fisher had finished his hard day's work, 
1^^ And he sat at his cottage door ; 
^!'|\^His good wife, Kate, sat by his side. 
J I And the moonlight danced on the floor — 
? The moonlight danced on the cottage floor, 
Her beams were clear and bright 
As when he and Kate, twelve years before, 
Talked love in her mellow light. 

Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay. 

And never a dram drank he ; 
So he loved at home with his Avife to stay. 

And they chatted right merrily ; 
Right merrily chatted they on. the while 

Her babe slept on he r b -east. 
While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile. 

On his father's knee found rest. 

Ben told her how fast the potatoes grew. 

And the corn in the lower field ; 
And the wheat on the hill was grown to seed. 

And promised a glorious yield— 
A glorious yield in the harvest-time, 

And his orchard was doing fair; 
His sheep and his stock were in their prime. 

His farm all in good repair. 

Kate said that her garden looked beautiful, 

Her fowls and her calves were fat; 
That the butter that Tommy that morning churned 

"Would buy him a Sunday hat; 



That Jenny, for Pa, a new shirt had made. 

And "t^vas done too b\' the rule ; 
That Xeddy the garden could nicelj' sjiade. 

And Ann was ahead at school. 

Ben slowly raised his toil-worn hand 

Through his locks of grayish brown — 
" I tell you, Kate, what I think," said he, 

" We're the happiest folks in town." 
"I know,"' said Kate, " th:xt we all work hard — 

Work and health go together, I've found : 
For there's Mrs. Bell does not work at all. 

And she's sick the Avhole year round. 

" They're worth their thousands, so people say. 

But I ne'er saw them happy yet; 
'Twould not be me that would take their gold. 

And live in a constant fret; 
My humble home has a light within, 

Mrs. Bell's gold could not buy, 
Six healthy children, a merry heart. 

And a husband's love-lit eye." 

I fancied a tear was in Ben's ej-e— 

The moon shone brighter and clearer, 
I could not tell why the man should cry, 

But he hitched up to Kate still nearer; 
He lean'd his head on her shoulder there. 

And he took her hand in his — 
I guess — (though I look'd at the moon just then.) 

That he left on her lips a kiss. 

Fraxces Dana Gage. 



A STORY FOR A CHILD. 



piTLiE one, come to my knee; 
Hark, how the rain is pouring 
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night. 
And the winds in the woods a-roaring. 

Hush, my darling, and listen. 

Then pay for the story with kisses : 

Father was lost in the pitch-black night. 
In just such a storm as this is. 

High up on the lonely mountains, 
^Yhere the wild men watched and waited ; 

Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, 
And I on my path belated. 

The rain and the night together 

Came down, and the wind came after. 

Bending the props of the pine-tree roof 
And snapping many a rafter. 

I crept along in the darkness. 
Stunned, and bruised, and blinded — 

Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs. 
And a sheltering rock behind it. 



There from the blowing and raining 
Crouching, I sought to hide me : 

Something rustled, two green eyes shone. 
And a wolf laj' down beside me. 

Little one, be not frightened ; 

I and the wolf together. 
Side by side, through the long, long night, 

Hid from the awful weather. 

His wet fur pressed against me ; 

Each of us warmed the other; 
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark. 

That beast and man were brother. 

And when the falling forest 

No longer crashed in warning. 
Each of us went from our hiding-place 

Forth in the wild, wet morning. 

Darling, kiss me payment ! 

Hark, how the wind is roaring! 
Father's house is a better place 

"WTien the stormy rain is pouring. 

Bayaru Taylor. 



HOME AND FIEESIDE. 



77 



CHOOSING A NAME. 



p^ HAVE got a new-oorn sister; 

iP I was uigh the first that kissed her. 

^p Wlien the nursing-woman brought her 
i To papa, his infant daughter, 
J How papa's dear eyes did glisten! — 

She will shortly he to christen ; 

And papa has made the offer, 

I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her — 

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 

Ann and Mary, they're too common- 

Joan's too formal for a woman ; 

Jane's a i^rettier name beside ; 

But Ave had a Jane that died. 

They would say, if 'twas Rebecca 



That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better iji old English books ; 
Ellen's left off long ago ; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet 
Are so good as Margaret; 
Emily is neat and fine; 
What do j^ou think of Caroline? 
How I'm iDuzzled and perplexed 
What to choose or think of next ! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mart Lamb. 



la^^ 



BABY. 



IhIEEE did you come from, baby dear? 
l^lB Out of the everywhere into here. 

P _ 9 ,.. ^ -J 

'^W'^ Where did you get those eyes so blue? 
J"''l» Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? 
A soft hand sti'oked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 



Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear? 
Grod spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all just come to be you? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 

George Macdonald. 



TRUE HOSPITALITY. 

^^^ PERFECT host is as rare a being as a great poet, and for much the same reason, 
i^ namely, that to be a perfect host requires as rare a combination of qualities as those 
ISs which are needed to produce a great poet. He should be like that lord in waiting of 



^^ whom Charles 11. said, that he was " never in the way, and never out of the way." 
f He should never deo;enerate into a showman, for there is nothino; of which most 
I people are so soon weary as of being shown things, especially if they are called 
upon to admire them. He, the perfect host, should always recollect that he is in his own 
house, and that his guests are not in theirs, consequently those local arrangements which 
are familiar to him should be rendered familiar to them. His aim should be to make his 
house a home for his guests, with all the advantage of novelty. If he entertains many 
guests, he should know enough about them to be sure that he has invited those who will 
live amicably together, and will enjoy each other's society. He should show no favoritism, 



78 THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 

if possible, and if he is a man who must indulge in favoritism, it should be to those of his 
guests who ai'e more obscure than the others. He should be judiciously despotic as regards 
all proposals for pleasure, for there will be many that are diverse, and much time will 
be wasted if he does not take upon himself the labor and responsibility of decision. He 
should have much regard to the comings and goings of his guests, so as to provide for 
their adit and exit every convenience. Now I am going to insist on what I think to be 
a very great point. He should aim at causing that his guests should hereafter become 
friends, if they are not so at present, so that they might, in future days, trace back the 
beginning of their friendship to their having met together at his house. He, the perfect 
host, must have the art to lead conversation without absorbing it himself, so that he may 
develop the best qualities of his guests. His expense in entertainment should not be 
devoted to what is luxurious, but to what is ennoblino- and comfortable. The first of all 
things is that he should be an affectionate, indeed, a loving host, so that every one of his 
guests should feel that he is really welcome. He should press them to stay, but should 
be careful that this pressing does not interfere with their convenience, so that they stay 
merely to oblige him, and not to please themselves. In considering who should be his 
guests, he should always have a thought as to those to whom he would render most service 
by having them as his guests, his poorer brethren, his more sickly brethren. Those who 
he feels would gain most advantage by being his guests, should have the first place in 
his invitations, and for his considerateness he will be amply rewarded by the benefits 
he will have conferred. 

Arthur Helps. 

THE EULE OF HOSPITALITY. 




^RUE hospitality is a thing that touches the heart and never goes beyond the circle 
of generous impulses. Entertainment with the truly hospitable man means more 
than the mere feeding of the body ; it means an interchange of soul gifts. Still it 
should have its laws, as all things good must have laws to govern them. 

The obligation to be hospitable is a sacred one, emphasized by every moral code 
known to the world, and a practical outcome of the second great commandment. 
There should never be a guest in the house whose presence requires any 
considerable change in the domestic economy. 

However much the circumstances of business or mutual interest may demand in 
entertaining a stranger, he should never be taken into the familv circle unless he is 
known to be wholly worthy of a place in that sanctum sanctorum of social life ; but 
when once a man is admitted to the home fireside he should be treated as if the 
place had been his always 

The fact of an invitation gives neither host nor guest the right to be master 
of the other's time, and does not require even a temporary sacrifice of one's entire 
individuality or pursuits. 

A man should never be so much himself as when he entertains a friend. 
To stay at a friend's house beyond the time for which one is in\'ited is to perpetrate 
a social robbery. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 



79 



To abide uninvited in a friend's home is as much a misdemeanor as borrowing his 
coat without his permission. It is debasing the coin of friendship to mere dross when 
a man attempts to make it pay his hotel bills. 

The fact of two men having the same occupation and interests in life gives to neither 
a social right to the other's bed and board. A traveling minister has no more right to 
go uninvited to a fellow-preacher's, house than a ti'aveling shopkeeper or shoemaker has 
to go uninvited to the house of his fellow-craftsman. Men are ordained to the ministry 
as preachers, teachers and pastors, and not as private hotel-keepers. 

They who go into the country in summer as uninvited guests of their farmer friends 
should be rated as social brigands and treated accordingly. 

These few social maxims are by no means to be taken as a complete code of laws. 
Others quite as important will spring up out of the personal experience of every 
reader of this article, and the justice and equity of all may be tested by that infallible 
standard of society — the Golden Eule. There can be no true hospitality that in practice 
is a violation of this rule ; and you may safely rest assured that you have giyen the 
fullest and most perfect measure of entertainment to your neighbor if you have done 
exactly as you would be done by. 

W. M. F. Round. 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 




;ND are ye sure the news Is true? 

And are ye sure he 's weel? 
Is this a time to think o' wark? 

Ye jades, lay by yom- wheel; 
Is this the time to si^in a thread, 

When Colin -s at the door? 
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 

For there 's nae luck about the house. 

There 's nae luck at a", 
There "s little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa". 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop's satin gown; 
For I maun ted the bailie's wife 

ITiat Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockin's, pearly blue ; 
Ifs a' to pleasure our gudeman, 

For he 's baith leal and true, 

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown. 

And Jock his Sunday coat; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 



It 's a' to please mj' ain gudeman, 
For he 's been lang awa'. 

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about. 

That Colin weel may fare ; 
And spread the table neat and clean. 

Gar ilka thing look braw, 
For wha can tell how Colin fared 

"When he was far awa'? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air ; 
His very foot has music in "t 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 

In troth, I'm like to greet! 

If Colin 's weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep him sae 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again? 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 



In troth I'm like to greet. 



Jean Adam. 



80 



THE GOLDEN mEASUKY. 



CATCHING SHADOAYS. 




HEX the day aud dark are blended, 
.-I And the weary tasks are ended, 
Sits the little mother humming. 

dear coming. 



T Waiting sound of hi 



TVTio, the lord of love's domain, 
Yet to her yields all again. 



Then the winsome, wee one. nestling 
In her hosom, spies the ■\ATestliug, 
Dancing shadows rise and fall. 
Phantom-like upon the wall, 
As the flickering firelight flashes 
From among the flames and ashes. 

Loud he laughs, in baby glee. 

At their elfin revehy ; 

At the lilting, lithe, elastic, 

Aiiy, fairy forms fantastic. 

Now receding, now advancing. 

Gov as love from voung eves glancing. 



Not eclipse and umbrage dim. 
These are sentient things to him ; 
"Wherefore, wistful welcome lending, 
Tiny hands are soon extending. 
Snatching, catching, quick and eager. 
At the shapes that him beleaguer. 

Oft he clasps them, grasps them, yet 
They but fool him, they coquet; 
Vain his striving and endeavor. 
They elude and mock him ever, ■ 
They delude and still deceive him, 
ITiey perplex and vex and grieve him. 

Much he wonders, ponders why 
"When they beckon yet they fly. 
And the tear in his blue eye 
Shines as rain from sunny skj'. 
Soon he turns — the cruel seeming 
Fades awaJ^ and he lies dreaming. 

E. Hannaford. 



THE LIGHT OF A CHEEEFUL FACE. 

■ HERE is no greater eveiy-day virtue than cheerfulness. This quality in "man, among 
men, is like sunshine to the day — of gentle renewing moisture to parched hearts. 
The light of a cheerful face diffuses itself, and communicates the hapj)y spirit that 
inspires it. The sourest temper must sweeten in the atmosphere of continuous good 
humor. As well might fog and cloud, and vapor, hope to cling to the sun-illuminated 
landscape, as the blues and moroseness to combat jovial speech and exhilerating laughter. 
Be cheerful always. There is no path but will be easier traveled, no load but will be 
lighter, no shadow on heart or brain but will lift sooner in presence of a determined cheer- 
fulness. It may sometimes seem difficult for the happiest temper to keep the countenance 
of peace and content ; but the difficulty will vanish when we truly consider that sullen 
gloom and passionate despair do nothing but multiply thorns and thicken sorrows. HI 
comes to us as providentially as good, and is a good, if we rightfully apply its lessons. 
Who will not then cheerfully accept the ill, and thus blunt its apparent sting? Cheerful- 
ness ought to be the fruit of philosophy and of Christianitj". What is gained by peevishness 
and fretfulness, by perverse sadness and sullenness? If we are ill, let us be cheered by the 
trust that we shall soon be in health ; if misfortune "befall us, let us be cheered by hopeful 
"vnsions of better fortune ; if death robs us of dear ones, let us be cheered by the thought 
that they are only gone before to the blissful bowers, where we shall all meet to part no 
more forever. Cultivate cheerfulness, if only for personal profit. You will do and bear 
every duty and burden better by being cheerful. It will be your consoler in solitude, ^-our 
passport and commendator in society. You will be more sought after, more trusted and 
esteemed for 3'our steady cheerfulness. The bad, the vicious, may be boisterously gay and 
vulgarly humorous, but seldom or never truly cheerful. Genuine cheerfulness is an almost 
certain index of a happy and a pure heart. 



HOME AND FIRESIDE. 




**A little elbow leans upon your knee.' 



TIRED MOTHERS. 



[LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee. 

Your tired knee that has so much to boar; 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair, 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight: 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,— 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness! A .year ago 

1 did not see it as I do to-duy — 
We are so dull and thankless; and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slijos away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me. 

That, while I wore the badge of motherhood. 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

'llio little child that brought me only good. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest. 
You miss this elbow from your tired knee, — ■ 

This i-estless curling head from off your breast, — 
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 



If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped 
And ne'er would nestle in j^our palm again; 

If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 
I could not blame you for .your heartache then. 

T wonder so that mothei-s ever fret 

At little children clinging to their gown: 
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet. 

Ai-e ever black enough to make them frown. 
If I could find a little nuiddy boot. 

Or cap, or jacket, on ni}' chamber floor, — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. 

And hear it patter in my house once more, — 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day. 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the skJ^ 
There is no woman in Ood's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest has flown. 

•The little boy I used to kiss is dead. 

May Riley Smith. 



(J 



82 THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



HOME lE^STEUCTIO]^. 

^^TsBO^TE all things, teach children what their life is. It is not breathing, moving, 
«^T^ playing, sleeping, simply. Life is a battle. All thoughtful people see it so. 
■^v;^ A battle between good and evil, from childhood. Good influences, drawing us up 
toward the divine ; bad influences, drawing us down to the brute. jMidway we 
stand, between the divine and the brute. How to cultivate the good side of the 
nature is the greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach children that they lead these two 
lives : the life without, and the life within ; and that the inside must be pure in the sight 
of God, as well as the outside in the sight of men. 

There are five means of learning. These are : 

Observation, reading, conversation, memorj', reflection. 

Educators, sometimes, in their anxiety to secure a wide range of studies, do not suffi- 
ciently impress upon their scholars the value of memory. Now, our memory is one of 
the most wonderful things God has bestowed upon us, and one of the most mysterious. 
Take a tumbler and pour water into it ; by-and-by you can pour no more ; it is full. It is 
not so with the mind. You cannot fill it full of knowledge in a whole lifetime. Pour in 
all you please, and it still thirsts for more. 

Remember this : 

Knowledge is not what you learn, but what 3'ou I'emember. 

It is not what you eat, but what 3'ou digest, that makes 3'ou grow. 

It is not the mone}'' you handle, but that 3"0u keep, that makes you rich. 

It is not what you study, but what you remember and reflect upon, that makes you 
learned. 

One more suggestion : 

Above all things else, strive to fit the children in your charge to be useful men and 
women ; men and women you may be proud of in after-life. While they are young, 
teach them that far above phj'sical courage — which will lead them to face the cannon's 
mouth — above wealth, which would give them farms and houses, and bank-stocks and 
fTold — is moral cou^^age. That courage by which they will stand fearlessly, frankly, 
firmly for the right. Every man or woman who dares to stand for the right when evil has 
its legions, is the true moral victor in this life, and in the land beyond the stars. 

Schuyler Colfaa. 



HOME ADOEl^MEXTS. 

ROOM without pictures is like a room without windows. Pictures are loop-holes 
of escape to the soul, leading to other scenes and other spheres. Pictures are con- 
solers of loneliness ; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can 
read without the trouble of turning over the leaves. 




HOME AND FIEESIDE. 



83 



THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR. 



^HE farmer sat in his easy chair, 
Smoking his pipe of clay, 
While his hale old wife, with busy care. 

Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A s^^■eet little girl, with fine blue ej^es, 
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 

The old man laid his hand on her head. 

With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
He thought how often her mother, dead, 

Had sat in that self-same place. 
As the tear stole down from his half-shut ej'e, 
"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you 
oiy!" 



The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, 
Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 

The busy old wife, by the open door, 
Was turning the spinning-wheel ; 

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree 

Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 

"VVTiile close to his heaving breast 
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 

Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day I 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 




TEIBUTE TO A MOTHEE. 

HILDREN, look in those eyes, listen to that clear voice, notice the feeling of even a 
single touch that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand. Make much of it 
while yet you have that most precious of all good gifts, a loving mother. Read 
the unfathomable love of those eyes ; the kind anxiety of that tone and look, 
however slight your pain. In after-life you may have friends, fond, dear, kind 
friends ; but never will you have again the inexpressible love and gentleness 
lavished upon you which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in my struggles 
with the hard, uncaring world, for the sweet, deep security I 'felt when, of an evening, 
nestling in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale, suitable to my age, read in her tender 
and untiring voice. Never can I forget her sweet glances cast upon me when I appeared 
asleep ; never her kiss of peace at night. Years have passed away since we laid her 
beside my father in the old churchyard ; yet still her voice Avhispers from the grave, and 
her eye watches over me, as I visit spots long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. 

Thoias Babington Mvcaulay. 



THE LITTLE CHILDREN. 



LITTLE feet ; that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears : 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn, 
Wliere toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road. 
O little hands; that, weak or strong. 
Have still to serve or rule so long. 

Have still so long to give or ask; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 



O little hearts; that throb and beat 
With much impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires; 
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned 
With passions into ashes turned, 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls; as pure and white. 
As crystalline, as i-ays of light 

Direct from Heaven, their source divine; 
Refracted through the mist of years. 
How red my setting sun appears; 

How lurid looks this sun of mine. 

Henuy Wadsworth Longfellow. 



84 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY, 




'And yet a hapjiy family 
Is but an earlier heaven." 



JOYS OF HOME. 



f^^^V^5ET are the joys of home, 
'i^m And pure as sweet ; for they 

Like dews of morn and evening come, 



m 



To make and close the day. 



The world hath its delights, 
And its deUisions, too ; 

But home to calmer bliss invites, 
More tranquil and more true. 



HOME AND FERESroE. 



85 



The mountain flood is strong, 

But fearful in its pride ; 
^Vhile gently rolls the stream along 

The peaceful valley's side. 

Life's charities, like light, 

Spread smilingly afar ; 
But stars approached, become more bright. 

And home is life's own star. 



The pilgrim's step in vain 
Seeks Eden's sacred ground! 

But in home's holy joys agani 
An Eden may be found. 

A glance of heaven to see. 
To none on earth is given ; 

And yet a happy family 
Is but an earlier heaven. 

Sir John Bowring. 



WOEDS TO BOYS. 



if I were a boy again ; that is, I 



would go to bed 



WOULD keep " better hours 
earlier than most boys do. Nothing gives more mental and bodily vigor than 
sound rest when properly applied. Sleep is our great replenisher, and if we 
neglect to take it regularly in childhood, all the worse for us when we grow up. 
If we go to bed early, we ripen ; if we sit up late, we decay ; and sooner or later Ave con- 
tract a disease called insomnia, allowing it to be permanently fixed upon us, and then we 
begin to decay, even in youth. Late hours are shadows from the grave. 

If I were a boy again, I would practice perseverance oftener, and never give up a 
thing because it was hard or inconvenient to do it. If we want light, we must conquer 
darkness. When I think of mathematics, I blush at the recollection of how often I " gave 
in " years ago. There is no trait more valuable than a determination to persevere when 
the right thing is to be accomplished. We are inclined to give up too easily in difficult or 
unpleasant situations, and the point I would establish with myself, if the choice was again 
within my grasp, would be never to relinquish my hold on a possible success, if mortal 
strength or brains, in my case, were adequate to the occasion. That was a capital lesson 
which a learned professor taught one of his students in the lecture-room, after some chem- 
ical experiment. The lights had been put out in the hall, and, by accident, some small 
article dropped on the floor from the professor's hand. The professor lingered behind, 
endeavoring to pick it up. "Never mind," said the student, "it is of no consequence 
to-night, sir, whether we find it or no." " That is true," replied the professor ; " but it 
is of grave consequence to me, as a principle, that I am not foiled in my determination to 
find it." Perseverance can sometimes equal genius in its results. " There are only two 
creatures," says the Eastern proverb, " who can surmount the pyramids — the eagle and 
the snail." 

James T. Fields. 



A WINTER EVENING AT HOME. 



^MOW stir the fire and close the shutters fast. 

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing lu'u 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each. 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 



'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat. 
To peep at such a world; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured car. 

"William Cowrru. 



86 



THE GOLD EX TREASURY. 



JOHN ANDERSO>sT MY JO. 



^OHX AXDEESOX, my io, John, 
WM When we were first acqueut, 
^'Your locks were like the raven, 
i^l| Your bonnie brow was breut ; 
Btit now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, mj' jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi" aue anither. 
'Now we maun totter down. John. 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

Johu Anderson, mj- jo. 

Egbert Burns. 




CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS. 



I^ERE the stockings were swung in their red. When we braved the bare floor ^\-ith our little bare 



white, and blue. 



feet — 



'Yl'^ ^Ml fashioned to feet that were light as the Xo shrine to a pilgrim was ever so sweet 



K dew. 

Ah, the fragrant old faith when we watched the 
cold gray 
Reluctantly line the dim border of day, 



"i^Tien each lieart and each stocking M-as burdened 

with bliss — 
On the verge of two worlds there is nothing like this 
But a mother's last smile and a lover's first kiss! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



HOME AND FIKESIDE. 



87 



A CRADLE HYMN. 



iUSH! my dear, lie still, aud slumber, 
s;;;;;sBn> Holy aHgcls guard thy bed ! 
'^P^^Heaveuly blessings without number 
Gently falling on thy head. 



Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, 
House and home thy friends provide; 

All without thy care or payment. 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou "rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be, 

When from heaven he descended. 
And became a child like thee. 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay : 

"VVTien his birthplace Avas a stable, 
And his softest bed was hay. 

See the kinder shepherds round him, 
Telling wonders from the sky ! 



There they sought him, there they found him, 
With his virgin mother by. 

See the lovely Babe a-dressing; 

Lovely Infant, how he smiled I 
When he wept, the mother's blessing 

Soothed and hushed the holy Child. 

Lo ! he slumbers in his manger,' 

Where the horned oxen fed ; 
Peace, my darling, here 's no danger, 

Here "s no ox anear thy bed. 

Mayst thou live to know and fear him, 
Trust and love him all thy days; 

Then go dwell forever near him. 
See his face, and sing his praise! 

I could give thee thousand kisses. 

Hoping what I most desire ; 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire. 

Isaac Watts. 



o^^KS^^o 




GOOD BEEEDIIn^G. 

FRIEND of yours and mine has very justly defined good breeding to be, "the 
result of much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for the sake 
of others, and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them." Taking 
this for granted — as I think it cannot be disputed — it is astonishing to me that 
f anybody, who has good sense and good nature, can essentially fail in good breed- 

^ ing. As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary according to persons, places and 

circumstances, and are only to be acquired by observation and experience ; but the 
substance of it is everywhere, and eternally the same. Good manners are to particular 
societies what good morals are to society in general — their cement and their security. And 
as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent the ill effects of bad 
ones, so there are certain rules of civility, universally implied and received, to enforce good 
manners and punish bad ones. And, indeed, there seems to me to be less difference both 
between the crimes and punishments, than at first one would imagine. The immoral man, 
who invades another's property, is justly hanged for it ; and the ill-bred man, who, by his 
ill manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of private life, is by common 
consent as justly banished from society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices 
of little conveniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized people, as 
protection and obedience are between kings and subjects ; whoever, in either case, violates 
that compact, justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own part, I really 
think that, next to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is the 
most pleasing ; and the epithet which I should covet the most, next to that of Aristides, 
would be that of well-bred. 

Philip, Earl of Chesterfield. 



88 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



THE CHILDREN'S BED-TIME. 




|HE clock strikes seven in the hall, 
The curfew of the children's day, 
That calls each little j^attering foot 

From dance and song and livel}- play; 
Their day that in a wider light 
Floats like a silver day-moon white. 
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, 




"From dance and song and lively play.'* 

Ah, tender hour that sends a drift 
Of children's kisses through the house, 

And cuckoo notes of sweet "Good night," 
That thoughts of heaven and home arouse 



And a soft stir to sense and heart. 
As when the bee and blossom part; 
And little feet that patter slower. 
Like the last droppings of a shower. 

And in the children's room aloft. 

What blossom shapes do gaily slip 
Their daily sheaths, and i-osy run 

From clasping hand and kissing lip, 
A naked sweetness to the eye — 
Blossom and babe and butterfly 
In witching one, so dear a sight' 
An ecstasj- of life and light. 

Then lily-drest, in angel white. 

To mother's knee they trooping come. 
The soft palms fold like kissing shells. 
And they and we go singing home — 
Their bright heads bowed and worshipping. 
As though some glory of the spring. 
Some daffodil that mocks the daj-. 
Should fold his golden palms and pvny. 

The gates of paradise swing wide 

A moment's space in soft accord. 
And those dread angels. Life and Death, 

A moment veil the flaming sword, 
As o'er this weary world forlorn 
From Eden's secret heart is borne 
That breath of Paradise most fair. 
Which mothers call " the children's praj'er." 

Then kissed, on beds we lay them down. 

As fragrant white as clover'd sod. 
And all the upper floors grow hushed 

With children's sleep, and dews of God. 
And as our stars their beams do hide, 
The stars of twilight, opening wide. 
Take up the heavenly tale at even. 
And light us on to God and heaven. 

Jane Ellis Hopkins. 



CHILDREN. 



^^HILDREX are what the mothers are. 
No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart. 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 



His startled ej'es with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee, 
"Who wishes all the Avhile to trace 
The mother in his future face; 
But 't is to her alone uprise 
His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 
Open with joy and not surprise. 

AValteu Savagk Laxdok. 



Home is the crystal of societ}^ and domestic love and duty are the best security for 
all that is most dear to us on earth. 



HOME AND FIRESroE. 



8i» 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 



iHRISTMAS is here ; 

^,^h Winds whistle shrill, 

^: Icy and chill, 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 
The mahoganj^-tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare ijlunie 
Sang, in its bloom; 
Night-birds are we; 
Here we carouse. 
Singing, like them. 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport, 
Boj^s, as we sit — 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone 
Let them sing on. 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 



Kind hearts and true. 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust I 
We sing round the tree. 

Care like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we "11 be I 
Drink, every one; 
Pile up the coals ; 
Fill the red bowls. 
Round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup — 
Friend, art afraid? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it j-et : 
Let us forget. 
Round the old tree ! 

Sorrows, begone I 

Life and its ills, 

Duns and their bills. 

Bid we to flee. 

Come with the dawn. 

Blue-devil sprite ; 

Leave us to-night, 

Round the old tree! , 

William Makepeack Tiiackekav. 



SQ^ 



TELL YOL^E WIFE. 



5)F you are in any trouble or quandary, tell your wife — that is if you have one — all 
about it at once. Ten to one her invention will solve your difficulty sooner than 
all your logic. The wit of woman has been praised, but her instincts are quicker 
and keener than her reason. Counsel with your wife, or mother or sister, and be 
assured, light will flash upon your darkness. "Women are too commonly adjudged 
as verdant in all but purely womanish affairs. No philosophical students of the sex thus 
judge them. Their intuitions, or insights, are the most subtle. In counseling a man to 
tell his wife, we would go farther, and advise him to keep none of his affairs a secret from 
her. Many a home has been happily saved, and many a fortune retrieved, by a man's full 
confidence in his " better-half." Woman is far more a seer and prophet than man, if she 
be given a fair chance. As a general rule, wives confide the minutest of their plans and 
thoughts to their husbands, having no involvements to screen from them. AVhy not 
reciprocate, if but for the pleasure of meeting confidence with confidence? We are 
certain that no man succeeds so well in the world as he who, taking :i partner for life, 



90 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



makes her the partner of his purposes and hojijes. What is wrong of his impulse or 
judgment, she will check and set right with her almost universally right instincts. 
"Help-meet" was no insignificant title as applied to man's companion. She is a 
help-meet to him in every darkness, difficulty and sorrow of life. And what she most 
craves and most deserves is confidence — without which love is never free from a shadow. 



THE FAMILY MEETING. 



^^y^E are all here: 
^Mj^i Father, mother, 
4^ Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled, we are all at home. 
To-night let no cold stranger come ; 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot, 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle peace assert her jDower, 
And kind affection rule the hour. 
We're all — all here. 

AVe're not all here ! 
Some are awaj' — the dead ones dear, 
■Wlio thronged with us this ancient hearth; 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
Looked in and thinned our little band. 
Some like a night-flash passed away. 
And some sank lingering day by day; 
The quiet graveyard — some lie there, — 
And cruel ocean has his share. 

We're not all here ! 



We are all here ! 
Even they — the dead — though dead, so deai 
Fond memory, to her duty true. 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How life-like, through the mist of years 
Each well-remembered face appears! 
We see them, as iu times long past; 
From each to each kind looks are cast; 
We hear their words, their smiles behold, 
They're round us as they were of old. 

We are all here ! 

We are all here : 

Father, mother. 

Sister, brother. 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon may we join the gathered dead. 
And by the hearth we now sit 'round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So in the world to follow this 
May each repeat, in words of bliss. 

We're all — all here. 

Charles Sprague. 



Children are the poetry of the world, the fresh flowers of our hearts and 
homes, little conjurors, with their "natural magic," evoking by their spells what delights 
and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring 
with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on 
very badly without them. 



The object of all ambition should be to be happy at home. If we are not happy 
there, we certainly cannot be happy elsewhere. It is the best joroof of the virtues of a 
family circle, to see a happy fireside. 



Part 1 1. 



Su5tT^ ^nb 3frt^nJbf0i7t|x* 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



'&• ^?(5^^ 




' The little hand outside her muff — 
To lieep it warm I had to hold it.' 



ON THE DOORSTEP. 



^I^MHE conference meeting through at last, 
■^1^^ We boys around the vestry waited 
/^f\ To see the girls come tripping past 
n Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 



Not braver he that leaps the wall 
By level musket-flashes litten, 

Than I, who stepped before them all, 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

93 



94: 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



But no ; she blushed, and took my arm !" 
We let the old folks have the highway, 

And started toward the Maple Farm 
Along a kind of lover's by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

"T was nothing worth a song or story; 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath ovu- feet. 
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming, 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 
Her face with j'outh and health was beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff^ 
O sculptor, if you could but mold it! 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone — 

"T was love and fear and triumijh blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 



The old folks, too, were almost home; 

Her dimpled hand the latches lingered. 
We heard the voices nearer come. 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
And with a "Thank 50U, Ned," dissembled. 

But yet I knew she understood 
With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overheard. 

The moon was slylj' peeping thi'ough it. 

Yet hid its face, as if It said, 

"Come, now or never! do it! do it!" 

]My lips till then had only known 

The kiss of mother and of sister, 
But somehow, full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her! 

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 

O listless woman, Aveary lover! 
To feel once more that fresh, wild thi'ill 

I"d give — But who can live youth over? 
Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



THE DEPARTURE. 



sND on her lover's arm she leant, 

And 1 ouud her waist she felt it fold; 
"i And far across the hills thej- went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Ee.voud their utmost jjurple rim, 
And deep into the dying day. 

The happy princess followed him. 

"I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss; " 
"O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, ■ t was such as this and this ; " 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And man}' a merry wind was borne. 
And streamed through man}' a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 



o>«X^^X.^o 



'• eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

"O happy sleep, that lightly lied! "' 
" O happy kiss, that woke th}' sleep I " 

"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! '' 
And o'er them many a llowing range 

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

A hundred summers! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where? 
"O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater Avonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple lim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Through all the world she followed him. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



FIRST LOVE. 



; IS sweet to hear. 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 
)^ The song and oar of Adria's gondolier; 

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep . 
'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, 

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the skj-. 



'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an ej'e will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark. 
Or hilled by falling waters; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



LOVE AXD FEIEXDSIIIP. 



95 



Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth- 
Sweet is revenge, especially to women. 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

***** 

'Tis sweet to win. no matter how, one's laurels, 
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 



Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
The tree of knowledge has been plucked — all's 
known — 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. 

LORU BVRON. 



NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. 



?skx.. 



*|R|HEEE is no time like the old time, when you 
^^ and I were young, 

'^f^r'When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds 
J«l of springtime sung ! 

"^ The garden's brightest glories by summer suns 
are nursed. 
But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that 
opened first ! 

There is no place like the old place where you and I 

were born ! 
Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of 

the morn, 
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the 

clinging arms that bore, 
Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look 

on r.i no more! 

There is no friend like the old friend w lio has shared 

our morning days. 
lHo greeting like his welcome, no homage like his 

praise ; 



Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of 

gold. 
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in 

every fold. 

There is no love like the old love that we courted in 

our pride ; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're 

fading side by side. 
There are blossoms all around us with the colors of 

our dawn. 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of 

day is gone. 

There are no times like the old times — the.v shall never 

be forgot! 
'i'here is no place like the old place — keep green the 

dear old spot! 
There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven 

prolong their lives ! 
There are no loves like oui- old loves — God bless our 

lovinar wives! 



MARY MOlilSON, 




MAKY, at thy window be ! 

It is the wished, the try s ted hour! ■ 
,Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure — 

The lovely Mary Morisou. 

Yestreen when to the ti-embling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 

To tlice my fancy took its wing — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 



Though this was fair, and that was braw. 

And j'on the toast of a' the town. 
I sighed, and said amang them 'a, 

"Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

"Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee'? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

AVliase only faut is loving thee"? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Marj^ Morison. 

Egbert Bvrns. 



J»6 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



IX OUR BOAT. 



tTARS trembling o'er us and sunset before us, 
'^ Mountains in sbadow and forests asleep ; 
■jjj Down tbe dim river we tloat on forever. 
in Speak not. ah. breathe not — there's peace oi' 
tbe deep. 

Come not. pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow; 

Rest falling softly o"er eyelids that weep; 
While down tbe river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there "s peace on 
the deep. 



As tbe \\aves cover the depths we glide over, 
So let tbe past in forgetfuluess sleep. 

While down tbe river we float on forever, 
Speak not, ah, breathe not — there "s peace on 
the deep. 

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us; 
All whom we love in thy tenderness keep! 
While down the river we float on forever. 
Speak not, ah, breathe not — there's peace on 
the deep. 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



COME REST IN" THIS BOSOM. 

S^^OME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. 
■^|i Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home 
• ill J" is still here; 

'^''^'i Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
And a heart and a hand all thv own to the last. 



I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 



Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
Through joy and through torment, through glory 
and shame? 



Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 
And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this. 
Through tbe furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to 

pursue. 
And shield thee, and save thee — or ])erish there too. 

Thomas Moore. 



MY WIFE 'S A "WINSOME WEE THING. 



^HE is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer. 
And neist mj' heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't: 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And think mj- lot divine. 

Robert Bcrns. 



-f— *-'V2/Z^-5^Z/^>10i — '- 



KISSING HER HAIR. 



ISSIXG her hair, I sat against her feet : 

Wove and unwove it — wound and found it 
; sweet ; 

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her 

eyes. 
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; 
With herown tresses bound, and found lier fair — 
Kissing her hair. 



Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me — 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; 
AVhat pain could get between my face and hers? 
What new sweet thing would Love not relish 

worse? 
Unless, perhaps, white Death bad kissed me there - 
Kissing her hair. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



LOVE AJSTD FEIENDSHIP 



97 






n, o 




J) 8 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



EARLY LOVE. 



^|^J;H, I remember well (and how can I 
e^i^ But evermore remember Avell?) Avhen first 

£r^ Our flame began, Avhen scarce we kne\\' what 

V -was 

The flame we felt ; when as we sat and siglied, 
And looked upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ailed, j'et something we did ail, 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 



ITien would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus. 
In that fii-st garden of om- simpleuess. 
"We spent our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge — ah, how then 
"Would she Avith sterner looks, Avith graver brow, 
Check my presumption, and my f orAvardness I 
Yet stiU would give me flowers, still would show 
Wnai she would have me, yet not have me know. 

Sajiuel Daniel. 



s^-^y^^ 




CHERRY-RIPE. 



||HERE is a garden in her face. 
i-',-^, "\Miere roses and Avhite lilies blow ; 
'fp^A heavenly paradise is that place, 
J-j. "\Mierein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
There cherries grow that none may buy. 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do inclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 
"\Miich ^\-hen her lovely laughter shows, 

Thej' look like rosebuds fiU'd Avith snow. 



Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels Avatch them still; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threafning Avith piercing froAvns to kill 

All that approach Avith eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till cherry-ri]ie themselves do ciy. 



EiciiARi) Alison. 



now DO I LOVE TE[EE. 



iO"W do I loA'e thee? Let me count the wavs : 



I love thee to the depth and breadth 

height 
My soul can reach, Avhen feeling out of s 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of each day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I loA-e thee freely, as men sti-ive for Eight; 



I love thee purelj-, as they turn from praise, 
and I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, andAvith my childhood's faith, 
ight I love thee Avith a Ioa'c I seem to lose 

"With my lost saints.— I love thee Avith the breath. 
Smiles, tears, of all my life!— and. if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. 



LOVE ^VXD FKIENDSIIIP. 



99 



AYINIFREDA. 



l^;WAY ! let naught to love displeasing, 
My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood. 

We '11 shine in more substantial honors, 
And, to be noble, we '11 be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender 
Will sweetly sound where 'er "tis spoke ; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 
No mighty treasures we possess ; 

We '11 find, within our pittance, plenty. 
And be content without excess. 



Still sliall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason. 

And that "s the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling. 
We '11 hand in hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling. 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures. 
While round my knees they fondly clung! 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! 

And when with en^•y time transported 

Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
You '11 in your girls again be courted. 

And I "11 go wooing in my boys. 



<.>o<;^e>~Jo 



HER LIKENESS. 



^^^ GIRL, who has so many wilful ways 
§^M She would have caused Job's patience to for- 
*^ sake him; 

yfj!; Yet is so rich in all that 's girlhood's praise, 
wr Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 
■§■ A little better she would surely make him. 

Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon. 
And very far from angel yet, I trow. 



Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human; 
Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman 
Than any one diviner that I know. 

Therefore I wish that she may safely keep 

This womanhede, and change not, only grow ; 
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, 
And in perennial blessedness, still reap 
On every hand of that which she doth sow. 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craix, 




•<s>' 3~^<5x-5 '^ 

AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. 



E fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ac fareweel, alas, forever! 
iC"i5 Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
WTio shall say that fortune grieves him, 
"Wliile the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae chcerf u' twinkle lights me ; 
Dai'k despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her. 
Love but her, and love forever, 



Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! 

RaBERT Burns. 



Let still the woman take 
An elder than herself: so wears she to him. 
So sways she level in her husband's heart, 
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves. 
Our fancies ai'c more giddy and unfirm, 
7 



More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won. 
Than women's are. 

****** 

Then let thy love be younger than thyself, 
Oi- thv affection cannot hold the bent. 



lUU 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY, 




LOVE. 



HOUGH the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those 
of tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysis or 
comparison, and putting us quite beside ourselves, we can seldom see 
after thirty years, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other 
remembrances, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. But here 
is a strange fact; it may seem to many men, in reviewing their experi- 
ence, that they have no fairer page in their life's book than the delicious 
memory of some passages wherein affection contrived to give a witchcraft 
surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth to a parcel of accidental 
and trivial circumstances. In looking backward, they may find that 
several things which were not the charm, have more reality to this 
gi'oping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. But be 
our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the 
visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things 
new ; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry and art ; which made 
the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchant- 
ments ; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart beat, and the most trivial 
circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory : when he became 
all eye when one was present, all memory when one was gone ; when the youth becomes a 
watcher of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil, a riband, or the wheels of a carriasre ; 
when no place is too solitary, and none too silent, for him who has richer company and 
sweeter conversation in his new thoughts, than any old friends, though best and purest, 
can give him ; for the figures, the motions, the words, of the beloved object are not, like 




other images, written in water, but, as Plutarch said, " enameled in fire," and make the 
study of midnight : 

'• Thou art not orone beiniygone ^^•here■er thou art. 

Thou leav"st in him thy watchful eye. in him thy loving heart.'' 

In the noon and the afternoon of life, we still throb at the recollection of days when 
happiness was not happy enough, but must be drugged with the relish of pain and fear; 
for he touched the secret of the matter who said of \o\v — 



" All other pleasures arc not %vorth its pains;*' 

and when the day was not long enough, but the night, too, must be consumed in keen 
recollections ; when the head boiled all night on the pillow with the generous deed it 
resolved on ; when the moonlight was a pleasing fever, and the stars were letters, and the 
flowers ciphers, and the air was coined into song; when all business seemed impertinence, 
and all the men and women running to and fro in the streets mere pictures. The passion 
remakes the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and sirjnificant. Everv bird 
on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. Almost the notes are articulate. 
The clouds have faces as he looks on them. The trees of the forest, the wavin<r 
grass and the peeping flowers, have grown intelligent ; and almost he fears to trust them 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 101 

with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the 
green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men : 

•• Foniitiiiu-heads and pjithless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves ; 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are safely housed, save bats and owls; 
A midnight bell, a passing groan, 
These are the sounds we feed upon." 

Behold there in the wood the fine madman ! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; 
he dilates ; he is twice a man ; he walks with arms akimbo ; he soliloquizes ; he accosts the 
grass and the trees ; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover, and the lily, in his VQins ; 
and he talks with the brook that wets his foot. The causes that have sharpened his per- 
ceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse. It is a fact often 
observed, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion, who cannot 
write well under any other circumstances. The like force has the passion over all his 
nature. It expands the sentiment ; it makes the clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. 
Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so 
only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another, it still more 
gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, 
and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his 
family and society. He is somewhat. He is a person. He is a soul. And here let us 
examine a little nearer the nature of that influence which is thus potent over the human 
youth. Let us approach and admire Beauty, whose revelation to man we now celebrate — 
beauty, welcome as the sun, wherever it please to shine, which pleases everybody with it 
and with themselves. Wonderful is its charm. It seems sufficient to itself. The lover 
cannot paint his maiden to his fancy, poor and solitary. Like a tree in flower, so much 
soft, budding, informing loveliness is society for itself, and she teaches his eye why Beauty 
was ever painted with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the 
Avorld rich. Though she extrudes all other persons from his attention as cheap and 
unworthy, yet she indemnifies him by carrying out her own being into somewhat imper- 
sonal, large, mundane, so that the maiden stands to him for a representative of all select 
things and virtues. For that reason the lover sees never personal resemblances in his 
mistress to her kindred or to others. Her friends find in her a likeness to her mother, or 
her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no resemblance except to 
summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows, and the song of birds. Beauty is 
ever that divine thing the ancients esteemed it. It is, they said, the flowering of virtue. 
Who can analyse the nameless charm which glances from one and another face and form? 
We are touched with emotions of tenderness and complacency, but we cannot find whereat 
this dainty emotion, this wandering gleam, point. It is destroyed for the imagination by 
any attempt to refer it to organization. Nor does it point to any relations of friendship 
or love that society knows and has, but, as it seems to me, to a quite other and unattain- 
able sphere, to relations of transcendent delicacy and sweetness, a true faerie land ; to 
what roses and violets hint and foreshow. We cannot get at beauty. Its nature is like 
opaline doves'-neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most 
excellent things, which all have this rainbow character, defying all attempts at appropria- 



102 THE GOLDEX TEEASLTIV. 

tion and use. What else did Jean Paul Eichter signify when he said to music, "Away! 
away ! thou speakest to me of things which in all my endless life I have found not, and shall 
not find." The same fact may be observed in every work of the plastic arts. The statue 
is then beautiful, when it begins to be incomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism, 
and can no longer be defined by compass and measuring wand, but demands an active 
imagination to go with it, and to say what it is in the act of doing. The god or hero of the 
sculjitor is always represented in a transition from that which is representable to the 
senses, to that which is not. Then first it ceases to be a stone. The same remark holds 
of painting. And of poetrv, the success is not attained when it lulls and satisfies, but 
when it astonishes and fires us with new endeavors after the unattainable. Concerning it, 
Landor inquires, " whether it is not to be referred to some purer state of sensation and 
existence." * * * * gy^^ ^j^jg dream of love, though beautiful, is only 

one scene in our play. In the procession of the soul from within outward, it enlarges its 
circles ever, like the pebble thrown into the pond, or the light proceeding from an orb. 
The rays of the soul alight first on things nearest, on every utensil and toy, on nurses and 
domestics, on the house and yard and passengers, on the circle of household acquaintance, 
on })olitics, and geography and history. But by the necessity of our constitution, things 
are ever grouping themselves according to higher or more interior laws. Neighborhood, 
size, numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, I'eal 
affinities, the longing for harmony between the soul and the circumstance, the high pro- 
oressive, idealizing instinct, these predominate later, and ever the step backward from the 
higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus even love, which is the deification of 
persons, must become more impersonal every day. Of this at first it gives no hint. Little 
think the youth and maiden who are glancing at each other across crowded rooms, with 
eyes so full of mutual intelligence — of the precious fruit long hereafter to proceed from 
this new quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of 
the bark and the leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, 
of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth and marriage. Passion beholds its 
object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled. 

"Her piire and eloquent blood 

Spoke lu her cheeks, aud so distinctly wrought. 

That one might almost say her body thought." 

Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with 
this pair, has no other aim, asks no more than Juliet — than Romeo. Night, day, studies, 
talents, kino'doms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is 
all form. The lovers delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their 
regards. AVhen alone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. 
Does that other see the same star, the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the 
same emotion that now delights me? They try and weigh their affection, and, adding up 
all costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, 
jeyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hair 
of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow 
and pain arrive to them, as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with the Eternal 
Power, in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus effected, and which adds a 



I.OVE AXD FRIENDSHIP. 103 

new value to every atom in nature, for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole 
web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element, is yet a 
temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in 
another heai't, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these 
endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness, and aspires to vast and universal aims. 
The soul which is in the soul of each, craving for a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, 
defects and dispi'oportion in the behavior of the other. Hence arise surprise, expostula- 
tion and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of 
virtue ; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and re-appear, and 
continue to attract ; but the regard changes, quits the sign, and attaches to the substance. 
This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of 
permutation and combination of all possible positions of the parties, to extort all the 
resources of each, and acquaint each with the whole strength and weakness of the other. 
For it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent the human 
race to each other. All that is in the world which is or ought to be known, is cun- 
ningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman: 

" The person love does to us fit. 

Like nianua has the taste of uU in it." 

The world rolls ; the circumstances vary every hour. All the angels that inhabit 
this temple of the body appear at the windows, and all the gnomes and vices also. 
By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such ; 
they confess and flee. Their once-flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast, and 
losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They 
resign each other, without complaint, to the good offices which man and woman are severally 
appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight of 
its object, for a cheerful disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other's 
designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together — those once- 
sacred features, that magical play of charms — was deciduous, had a prospective end, like 
the scaffolding by which the house was built ; and the purification of the intellect and the 
heart, from year to year, is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and 
wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims, with which two persons, a 
man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to 
spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with 
which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which 
the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature, and intellect, and art emulate each 
other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium. Thus are we put 
in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeketh 
virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by 
nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often 
made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with 
pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are 
moments when the affections rule and absorb the man and make his happiness dependent 
on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again — its over- 
arching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears that 



104 



THE GOLDEN TREASUHY, 



swept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character, and blend with God, to attain 
their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose anything by the progress of 
the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive 
as these relations, must be succeeded only by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever. 

Ealph "Waldo E^ierson. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



;HE fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle; 

yVhy not I with thine. 



See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower woidd be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother. 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
What are all these kissings worth. 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




GOOD BYE. 



'WEETHEART, good bye ! That flufring sail 

Is spread to waft me far from thee ; 
And soon, before the farth'ring gale, 

My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
Perchance, all des'late and forlorn, 

These eyes shall miss thee many a year: 
But unforgottcn every charm — 

Tliouffh lost to sisrht, to memorv dear. 



Sweetheart, good bye I one last embrace! 

Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever! 
Yet in this heart's most sacred place 

ITiou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever; 
And still shall recollection trace, 

In fancy's mirror, ever near. 
Each smile, each tear, that form, that face — 

Though lost to sight, to memoiy dear. 

Thomas 3Iooue. 



LOVE /VND FKIENDSHIP. 



105 



HOAY MANY TIMES. 



, r^bz- 



|0W many times do I love thee, dear? 
Tell me how many thoughts there he 
In the atmosi^here 
Of a new-fallen year, 
Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity: 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 



How many times do I love, again? 
Tell me liow many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain. 
Unraveled from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow stai- : 
So many times do I love, again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



-4- 



ABSENCE. 



^HEN I thinlv on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and wearj- ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

Egbert Burns. 



COMING THROUGH THE RTE. 



mOMIXG- through the rye, poor body, 
MM Coming through the rye, 
#? She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
W Coming through the lye. 
Jenny 's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the rye ; 



Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need a body cry? 
Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen, 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need the world ken? 
Jenny 's a' wat, poor body; 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 

Coming through the rye. 

Robert Btrns. 



COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 



j^IN a body meet a body 
~" ' Comin' through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
When comin' through the rye. 

Amang the train there is a swain 
I dearly lo'e mysel ; 



But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I diuna care to tell. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town. 
Gin a bodj^ greet a body, 

Need a body frown? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 

Adapted from Burns. 



HARK! HARK! THE LARK AT HEAVEN'S GATE SINGS. 



tARKl hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
'I f^ His steeds to water at those springs 
i I On chaliced flowers that lies ; 



And winking Marj'-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin. 

My lady sweet, arise. 

William Shakespeare. 



1()( 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



O FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS. 



FAIEEST of the rural maids ! 
Thy hirth was iu the forest shades ; 
Green houghs, and glimiDses of the skj-, 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild, 
And all the heauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the ti-ees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 



Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its plaj-ful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed. 
Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 

WiLLIAil CULLEN BRYANT. 




"Take me again to your heart as of yore." 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 



i^ACirVVARD, turn backward, O Time, in your 

iS^' flight, 

Make me a child again, just for to-night; 
V Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take nie again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my haij , 
Over my slumbers your lo^ing watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 



BackAvard. flow baclnvard. O tide of the years! 
I am so Avearj' of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recomi^ense, tears all iu vain, — 
Take them and give me my childhood again! 
I have growji weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap : — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 



LOVE AXD FEIENDSHIP. 



107 



Tired of the liollo-\v, the ba.se, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, iny heart calls for j'ou ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded our faces between. 
Yet with strong j^earning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Over mj' heart, in the days that are flown, 
Xo love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours : 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;- 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep I 



Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes awa)'' from the light; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — • 
Rock rae to sleep, mother, — ^rock me to sleejol 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been lolig 
Since I last listened j'our lullaby song: 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping your face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to ^^'eep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy) . 



PACK CLOUDS AWAY. 



fljf^ACK clouds away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow : 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, pniue thy wing! nightingale, sing! 
To give iny love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 



Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each bill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-spaiTOw, 
You pretty elves, among yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Sing, birds, iu eveiy fiu-row. 

Thomas Heywood. 



LINGER NOT LONG. 



I^INGER not long! Home is not home without 
thee ; 
Its dearest tokens only make me mourn ; 
T| Oh ! let its memory, like a chain about thee, 
I Gently compel and hasten thy retiu-n. 

Linsj-er not lonff! 



Linger not long! though crowds should woo thy 
staying, 
Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear. 
Compensate for the grief thy long delaying 
Costs the sad heart that sighs to have thee liere? 

Linger not long! 

Linger not long! How shall I watch thy coming. 
As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell — 

When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming. 
And silence hangs on all things like a spell? 

Ling-er not long! 



How shall I watch for thee when fears grow 
sti'onger. 
As night draws dark and darker on the hill? 
How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer? 
Oh ! thou art absent — art thou absent still ? 

Ivinger not long! 

Yet though I dream not, though the eye that seeth 
thee 
Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull. 
For oh ! I sometimes fear, when thou art with me. 
My cup of happiness is all too full! 

Linger not long! 

Haste — haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling; 

Haste as a bird luito its peaceful nest! 
Haste as a skiff, when tempests wild are swelling. 

Flies to its haven of securest rest! — 

Linger not long. 



108 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 



SONG. 



g^l^ PLACE in Iby memorj'. 
i^ Is all that! claim, 



clearest. 



^^^ To pause and look back Avhen thou hearest 
Y The sound of my name. 

I Another may woo thee nearer, 
1 Another may win and wear: 

I care not, though he be dearer. 
If I am remembered there. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee. 



But a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming. 
Which never must break upon thine. 

And Heaven, which made thee all blooming, 
Xe'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me not as a lover 

Whose fond hopes are crossed. 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it has lost:— 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves, yet never may see. 
As a sister remembers a brother. 

Oh, dearest, remember me. 

Gerald Griffin. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 



^, THE days are gone when beauty- bright 
My heart's chain wove ! 
'When my dream of life, from morn till 
night. 
Was love, still love ! 
N"ew hope may bloom, 
And days may come. 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there 's nothing half so ssveet in life 

As love's young dream! 
O, there 's nothing haK so sweet in life 
As love's young dream! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

"WTien Avild youth "s past ; 
Though he win the wise, who frowned before. 
To smile at last ; 

He '11 never meet 
A joy so sweet 



In all his noon of fame. 
As when flrst he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt llame. 
And at every close she blushed to hear 

The one loved name ! 

O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot, 

"\Miich first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste I 
'T was odor fled 
As soon as shed; 
'T was morning's winged dream ; 
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream! 
0. 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again 
On life's dull stream I 

Thomas Moore. 



LOVE IS ENOUGH. 



J'^OA'E is enough. Let us not seek for gold. 

1^ Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and 

selfishness ; 
yi In those serene. Arcadian days of old, 
Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress. 
Tlic gods who dwelt in fair Olympia's height, 
Lived only for dear love and love's delight; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. "Why should we care for fame"? 

Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: 
It lures us with the glorj" of a name 

Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. 
Let us stay here in this secluded place, 
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace ; 
Love is enough. 



Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? 

It brings men only envy and distrust; 
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, 

And earthly honors vanish in the dust. 
ITie grandest lives are ofttimes desolate; 
I^et me be loved, and let who will be great; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. ^Vliy should we ask for more? 

A\Tiat greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? 
\\liat better boon of all their precious store 

Than our fond hearts that love and love again? 
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; 
And life is fan-, and all the world complete ; 
Love is enough. 

Ella Wheeler. 



LOVE AND FEIENDSHir. 



109 



IF THOU "WERT BY MY SIDE. 



WmF thou wert by iny side, my love ! 
i^ How fast would evening fail 
^§ In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love ! wert by my side. 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 
O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 



But miss thj' kind approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on! then on! where duty leads. 
My course be onward still. 




' Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
Across the dark bhie sea." 



I miss thee at the dawning gray 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil trj% 
The lingering noon to cheer. 



O'er broad Hindostan's sultiy meads, 
O'er black Almorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain. 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits, 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay. 

As then shall meet in thee ! 

Keginald Hebek. 



PAIN OF LOVE. 



M|||0 live in hell, and heaven to behold, 
j^^^. To welcome life, and die a living death, 
^y&f To sweat with heat, and j^et be freezing cold, 
11 I'o grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath. 
To tread a maze that never shall have end. 
To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears. 
To climb a hill, and never to descend. 



Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, 

To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree. 

To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw. 

To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be, 

And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ; 

If this he love, if love in these be founded, 

My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 

Henhy Constable. 



110 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



BONNIE MARY. 






('|p*'0 fetch to me a pint o" -wine. 
And fill it in ii silver tassie; 
That I may drink before I go, 
jj A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the BerwieU-law, 
And I maun leave mj' bonnie Maiy. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready; 
The shouts o" war are heai-d afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
Ifs not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

Ifs leaving thee, m.y bonnie Mary. 

KOBEKT BlRNS. 




SWEET HAND. 



I^WEET hand that, held in mine. 

Seems the one thing I cannot live witliout. 
The souFs one anchorage in this storm and doubt. 
I take thee as a sign 

Of sweeter days in store 
For life, and more than life, when life is done, 
And thj' soft pressure leads me gently on 

To Heaven's own evermore. 

I have not much to say, 
Xor that much in words, at such fond request. 



Let my blood speak to thine, and hear the rest 
Some silent heartfelt waj'. 

Thrice blest the faithful hand 
AMiich saves e'en while it blesses; hold me fast; 
Let me not go beneath the floods at last. 

So near the better land. 

Sweet hand that, thus in mine, 
Seems the one thing I cannot live without, 
My heart's one anchor in the storm and doubt. 

Take this, and make me thine. 



Of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing — that which, for 
the time, annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled 
heart — is the conviction that we have been deceived where Ave placed all the trust of love. 



I.OYE AXD FEIENDSHir. 



Ill 



ANNIE LAURIE. 




AXWELTOISr banks are boimie, 
Where early fa's the dew ; 
"Where ine and Annie Laurie 
Made up the promise true ; 
Made up the premise true, 
And ne'er forget will I; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'll lay me doun and die. 



She's backit like the peacock, 

She's breistit like the swan. 
She's jimp about the middle. 

Pier waist ye weel micht span, 
Her waist ye weel micht span. 

And she has a rolling eye ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 

Douglas. 



_-a^»i;-t. 




TRUE LOTE. 



# 




that happiness is the most wholesome 
in which the immortality of man is des- 




HERE needs no other proof 
moral atmosphere, and that 

tined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious 
aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty 
of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all 
warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the 
child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps 
its arms about her neck. God is thanked, perhaps unconsciously, for 
the brightness of his earth, on summer evening, when a brother and 
sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart-stores to each 
other, and feel their course of thought brio-htenino- as it runs. 
When the aged parent hears of the honors his children have won, or looks round upon 
their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to Him who, in them, 
prescribed the purpose of his life, and bestowed its grace. But religious as is the mood 
of every good affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The 
soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. 
At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel ; there is nothing on earth 
too defiled for its charity — nothing in hell too appalling /or its heroism — nothing in Heaven 
too glorious for its sympathy. 

Strengthened, sustained, vivified, by that most mysterious power, union with another 
spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and 
to conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher may experience 
uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, 
perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on 
their everlasting way ; but this philosopher, solitary seraph as he may be regarded amidst a 
myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit 
becoming conscious that it is beloved — be it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the 
daughter of the sage reposing in her father's confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, 
or the man of letters musing by his fireside. 

The warrior about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however 
impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those 
who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide I'ealm of futurity 



112 



THE GOLDEN TREASLTtY. 



for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of 
social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate 
a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a 
new and sovereign affection. 

And these are many — they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the 
leader of a nation, the warrior is the grace of an age, the philosopher is the birth of a 
thousand years ; but the lover, where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their 
children, there he has been — wherever children are at play together, there he will soon 
be — wherever there are roofs under which men dwell, Avherever there is an atmosphere 
vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, 
unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and 
the high temper of the discourse. 

Hakhiet ^Iaktixeau. 

^^h^t'-'- E5"^ 



I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE. 



? ARISE from dreams of thee 
b Tn the ftrst sweet sleep of night, 
^Maeii the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee. 
And a spirit in ray feet 
Has led me — who knows how? 
To thy chamber- window, sweet I 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream ; 
The ehampak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a di-eam ; 



The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art ! 

O, lift me from the grass I 

1 die, I faint, I fail I 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
My heart beats loud and fast : 
O, press it close to thine again. 
"Where it will break at last '. 

Percy Byssue Shelley. 



MT LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. 






MY Luve"s like a red. red rose, 
ITiafs newly sprung in June; 

O, my Lnve"s like the melodie 
ITiat's sweetlj' plaj'ed in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear. 

Till a" the seas gang dry; 



Till a" the seas gang dry. my dear; 

And the rocks melt wi" the sun; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

TVTiile the sands o" life shall run. 

And fare thee weel. my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile I 
And I will come again, my Luve. 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns. 



SEPARATION. 



DAYS and hours, your work is this : 
To hold me from my proper place, 
.V little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 



That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 
.Vud unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue. 

Alfred Texxyson. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



113 



THREE KISSES. 



flRST time he kissed ine, ho but only kissed 
The Angers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
And ever since it grew more clean and white — 
Slow to world-greetings — quick with its "'O, 

list," 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
Thau that first kiss. The second passed in height 



The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. O bej^ond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own cro\\n. 

With sanctifying sweetness did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 



J|IS MORN; the sea-breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew ; 
And perfumes rise from many a grove 
As incense to the clouds that move 
j Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear; 
But I am sad — ^thou art not here. 

'Tis noon; a calm unbroken sleep 
Is on the blue waves of the deep ; 
A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
Is floating over hill and stream; 
And many a broad magnolia flower 
Within its shadowy woodland bower 
Is gleaming like a lovely star; 
But I am sad — thou art afar. 

'Tis eve; on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dyes; 
The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms in the waves below ; 



And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze 
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-ti-ees, 
Breathing in music round the spot ; 
But I am sad — I see thee not. 

'Tis midnight; with a. soothing spell 
The far tones of the ocean swell. 
Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 
Low bending o'er her sleeping child; 
And on each wandering breeze ai-e heard 
The rich notes of the mocking-bird 
In many a wild and wondrous lay ; 
But I am sad — thou art away. 

I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear ; 
Thy own dear voice is in my ear; 
Around my cheek thy tresses twine. 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine. 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed. 
Thy head is pillowed on my breast. 
Oh I I have all my heart holds dear; 
And I am happy — thou art here. 

George D. Prentice. 



THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. 



, c^?;-^ 



fHEsunhasgane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, 
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
scene. 
While lanely I strayin the calm summer gloamin'. 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
blane. 

HoAV sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom. 
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; 

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 

And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha 'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' 
Dumblane. 



Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to thee'ening! — 
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
Is charming j^oung Jessie, the Flower o' Diunblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie I 
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; 

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie 
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
blane. 

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. 
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain. 

And recken as naething the height o' its splendor. 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 
Robert Tannahili,. 



114 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAL^D. 



^OME into the garden, Maud, 
M For the black bat, night, hi 



, has flo^Ti ! 
Come into the garden. Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 
•i? And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beo-inning to faint in the light that she loves. 

On a bed of daffodil sky,— 
To faint in the light of the sun that she loves. 

To faint in its light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune,— 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lilj', " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine, 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine! 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose 

" For ever and ever mine! "' 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 

As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood. 

Our wood, that is dearer than all; 



From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a jNIarch-wind sighs. 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your ej'es. 

To the woody hollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

Tlie slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose \^-as awake all night for j-our sake. 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses Avere all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls. 
Come hither! the dances are done; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, mj- dear; 

She is coming, ray life, my fate! 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near; '" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear; "" 

And the lily whispers, ''I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 



HEN love with unconflned wings 
■ji Hovers within my gates. 
t^ And my divine Althea brings 
To whisper at my grates ; 
"S^Taen I lie tangled in her hair. 

And fettered with her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 
Know no such liberty. 



"VVlien flowing cups run swiftly round. 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads \\ith roses crowned. 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
\Tiwn thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

■\Micn healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



llfj 



When, linnet-like confined, I. 

With shriller note shall sing 
The mercy, sweetness, majesty. 

And glories of my king; 



Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 




'Stone walls do not a prison niaKe, 
Nor iron bars a cage." 



When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
The enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 

Know no such liberty. 



If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

ElClIAKD LOVKLACE. 



o^xX^S>o^o 



There has nearly always been a good wife behind every great man, and there is a good 
deal of truth in the saying that a man can be no greater than his wife will let him. 

s 



IIG THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 

A AVOMAX'S QUESTIO^\ 

Ij^EFORE I trust my fate to thee, Is there -nitliin thy heart a need 

i^^ Or place luy hand iu thine, That mine cannot fulfill ? 

'^"^ Before I let thy futui-e give One chord that any other hand 

Color and form to mine, Could better wake or still? 

Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life 
for me. wither and decay. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel Lives there within thy nature hid 

A shadow of regret : The demon-spirit change, 

Is there one link within the Past Shedding a passing glory still 

That holds thy spirit yet? Ou all things new and sti-ange? 

Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my heart 
pledge to thee? against thy own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
Does there withm my dimmest dreams ^^ ^^,^^.g^. ^^ ^^ ^^^ 

A possible future shine, ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^_^,^^^,^ ^^^.^^^j.^ _ 

^Mierein thy life could henceforth breathe. ^.^^ thou-had been to blame? 

Untouched, unshared by mine? Some soothe their consc ienc . thus ; but thou wilt surely 
U so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. ^^^.^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^_ 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, Nay, answer not — I dare not hear. 

Within thy inmost soul, The words would come too late ; 

That thou has kept a portion back. Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 

"V\Tiile I have staked the whole. So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy "SATiatever on my heart may fall — remember. I would 
tell me so. risk it all I 

Adelaide Axxe Procter. 
— ^^sgJHgsM— 



-^^ 



DORIS. 

SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden: "They might remember,"' she answered meekly, 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers; "That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild; 

I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, But if they love me 'tis none so fei-vent; 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hom'S. I am a servant, and not a child.'' 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 

Wild summer roses of rare perfume. And love did win me to swift reply : 

The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened " Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall bind you 

Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. Xor fray nor find you, until I die."' 

She touched my shoulder with fearful linger: She blushed and started, and stood awaiting. 

She said, "We linger; we nuist not stay; As if debating iu dreams divine; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander: But I did brave them— I told her plainly 

Behold them yonder— how far they stray! " She doubted vainly; she must be mine. 

I answered bolder, " Xay, let me hear you, So we, tA\in-hearted, from all the valley 

And still be near you, and still adore; Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes. 

No wolf iior stranger will touch one yearling; And homev.ard drove them, we two together. 

Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more." Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

She whispered, sighing : " There will be sorrow That simple duty fresh grace did lend her— 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; My Doris tender, my Doris true : 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, That I, her Avarder, did always bless her, 

I shall be scolded, and sent away." And often press her, to take her due. 

Said L replying : " If they do miss you, And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 

They ought to kiss you, when you get home ; ^^'ith love excelling and undefiled ; 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor And love doth guard her, both fast and feiwent. 

Should be the labor from which you come." ^o ™ore a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur J. Mixbv. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



117 



SAD ARE THEY WHO KNOW NOT LOVE. 



SAD are they who know not love. 
But, far from jDassion's tears and smiles, 

Drift down a moonless sea, and pass 
The silver coasts of fairy isles. 

And sadder they whose longing lips 
Kiss empty air, and never touch 



The dear warm mouth of those thej^ love 
Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! 

But clear as amber, sweet as musk. 
Is life to those whose lives unite; 

They walk in Allah's smile by day, 
And nestle in his heart by night. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



-^3S— SS 



O SWALLOW, FLTINO SOUTH. 



SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
. ^W" Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
^?^ And tell her, tell her \^'hat I tell to thee. 

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou, that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 



Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her, brief is life, but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and avoo her, and make her mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Alfred Tennyson. 




SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 



HE was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 



-jsss}— e=a^ 



A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eyes serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A trav'ler between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsw^orth. 



MARGARET. 



SMOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
My fingers ache, my lips are dry; 



'mm 



jfji^/iOh, if you felt the pain I feel! • 
But oh, who ever felt as I? 



No longer could I doubt him true ; 

All other men may use deceit ; 
He always said my eyes were blue. 

And often swore my lips were sweet. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



118 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



THE MILKING MAID. 



s|HE year stood at its equinox, 
^ And bluff tlic uortli was blowing. 
A bleat of lambs came from the Hocks. 

Green hardy things were growing: 
I met a maid with shining locks 
Where milky kine were lowing. 

She wore a kerchief on her neck, 
Her bare arm showed its dimple. 



Patlietically i-ustical. 
Too pointless for the citj-. 

She kept in time Avithout a beat. 
As true as cliurch-bell ringers. 

Unless she tapped time witli her feet, 
Or squeezed it with lier fingers ; 

Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet 
As many a practiced singer's. 




•She wore ;i kerchief on her neck, 
Her b;ire arm showed its dimple 



Her apron spread \\'ithout a speck. 
Her air was frank and simple. 

She milked into a wooden pail, 
jVnd sang a coimtrj' dittj- — 

An innocent fond lover's tale. 
That was not wise nor wittv. 



I stood a minute out of sight, 
Stood silent for a minute, 

To eye the pail, and creamy white 
The frothing milk within it — 

To eye the comely milking maid. 
Herself so fresh and creamy. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



119 



"Good (lay to you! " at last I said; 

She turned hex- head to see me. 
"Good day! " she said, with lifted head; 

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. 

And all the while she milked and milked 

The grave cow heavy-laden : 
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, 

But not a sweeter maiden. 

But not a sweeter, fresher maid 

Than this in homelj' cotton, 
Whose pleasant face and silky braid 

I have not j^et forgotten. 

Seven springs have passed since then, as I 

Count with a sober sorrow ; 
Seven springs have come and passed me by, 

And spring sets in to-morrow. 

I've half a mind to shake myself 
Free, just for once, from London, 

To set my work upon the shelf, 
And leave it done or undone ; 



To nm down by the early train, 
Whirl down with shriek and whistle, 

And feel the bluff north blow again. 
And mark the sprouting thistle 

Set up on waste patch of the lane 
Its green and tender bristle ; 

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, 
Crisp primrose-leaves and others. 

And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, 
And butt their patient mothers. 

Alas ! one point in all my plan 
My serious thoughts demur to : 

Seven years have passed for maid and man, 
Seven years have passed for her too. 

Perhaps my rose is over-blown. 

Not rosy, or too rosy ; 
Perhaps in farm-house of her own 

Some husband keeps her cosy, 
Where I should show a face unknown, — 

Good-bj^e, my wayside posy ! 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 



-r-3-^<=^ 



UNDER THE BLUE. 



* 



llJpHE skies are low, the winds are slow ; 
^Ife ITie woods are bathed in summer glory: 
•^'The mists are still, o'er field and hill; 
The brooklet sings its dreamy story. 

I careless rove through glen and grove ; 

I dream by hill and copse and river; 
Or in the shade by aspen made 

I watch the restless shadows quiver. 

I lift my eyes to azure skies 
That shed their tinted glory o'er me ; 

While memories sweet around me fleet, 
As i-adiant as the scene before me. 



And while I muse upon the hues 
Of summer skies in splendor given, 

Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes. 
Whose blue is like the blue of heaven. 

Bend low, fair skies! Smile sweet, fair eyes! 

From radiant skies rich hues are streaming; 
But in the blue of pure eyes true 

The radiance of my life is beaming. 

O skies of blue ! ye fade from view ; 

Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver; — 
But the sure light of dear eyes bright 

Shines on forever and forever! 

Francis F. Browne. 



-^'•'exr^ 



KISS ME SOFTLY. 



l^pISS me softly and speak to me low, — 
J^ Malice has ever a vigilant ear; 
V^'T' Wbat if Malice were lurking near? 
Ji Kiss me, dear! 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, - 
Envy, too, has a watchful ear; 



\Miat if Envy should chance to hear? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When lovers may love with never a fear; — 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

John Godfrey S.\xe. 



120 



THE GOLDEN TEEAStrRY. 



PEARLS. 



liOT what the chemists say they he, 
*%5 Are pearls — they never grew ; 
^ They come not from the hollow sea, 
They come from heaven iu dew I 

Down in the Indian sea it slips, 
Through green and hriny whkls. 



AMiere great shells catch it in their lips, 
^Vnd kiss it into pearls ! 

If dew can be so beauteous made. 

Oh, why not tears, my girl ? 
Why not your tears? Be not afraid — 

I do but kiss a pearl ! 

EiCHARD Henry Stoudaed. 



-^3S— S:^- 



A BIRD AT SUNSET. 



. ,pn>D bird, that wingest wide the glimmering 
iHJlsl moors, 

TWTiither, by belts of yellowing woods, away? 
"VATiat pausing sunset thy wild heart allures 
Deep in^.o dying day? 

Would that mj' heart, on wings like thine, could pass 
"WTiere stars their light in rosy regions lose — 

A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass, 
Falling with falling dews! 

Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own, 

In fairy lands beyond the utmost seas; 
Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone, 

And sings to silent trees? 



Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves 
And the suns darken and the days grow cold ; 

And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves. 
And cease in common mould. 

Fly from the winter of the world to her! 

Fly, happy bird! I follow in thy flight, 
Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir 

In baths of crimson light. 

My love is dying far awaj' from me. 

She sits and saddens in the fading west. 
For her I mourn all day, and pine to be 

At night upon her breast. 

Egbert Bulwer Lytton. 



-a^^XF-S- 



SERENADE. 



|HE western wind is blowing fair 
Across the dark ^gean sea, 
And at the secret marble stair 

My Tja-ian gallej^ waits for thee. 
Come down ! the purple sail is spread, 

The watchman sleeps within the town; 
O leave thy lily-flowered bed, 

Lady mine, come down, come down! 

She will not come, I know her well, 

Of lover's vows she hath no care, 
And little good a man can tell 

Of oue so cruel and so fair. 
True love is but a woman's toy, 

They never know the lover's pain, 
And I who loved as loves a boy 

Must love in vain, nuist love in vain. 

O noble pilot, tell me true. 
Is that the sheen of golden hair? 

Or is it but the tangled dew 
That binds the passion-flowers there? 



Good sailor, come and tell me now 

Is that my ladj^'s lily hand ? 
Or is it but the gleaming prow, 

Or is it but the silver sand? 

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, 

'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, 
It is my own dear lady true 

With golden hair and lily hand! 
O noble pilot, steer for Tro.y! 

Good sailor, plj^ the laboring oar ! 
This is the Queen of life and joy 

'\M)om we uuist bear from Grecian shore! 

The waning sk_v grows faint and blue • 

It wants an hour still of day ; 
Aboard ! aboard ! my gallant crew 

O Lad\' mine, away! awaj'! 
O noble pilot, steer for TrojM 

Good sailor, plj' the laboring oar! 
O loved as only loves a boy! 

O loved forever, evermore ! 

OSCAK WiLPE. 



I.OVE AXD FRIENDSHIP 



121 



^ 



i^eX, 



THE PUEIFICATIOl^ OF LOYE. 





HE coming historian in this department of human experience will, if he 
writes justly, devote a long chapter to the influence of Christianity 
upon the quality of this sentiment. Christianity proper — that is, 
considered apart from Judaism and from accidental facts seen along 
its path, must be confessed to have done much toward spiritualizing 
the attachment between man and woman, much toward inculcating the 
idea of a relation of a high character between two souls, and toward 
establishing the principle that this fi'iendship must last as long as life 
lasts. One of the most divine of Christ's teachings is his estimate of 
love. No one so removed it from the lowness and coarseness of the street, and no one 
up to his day pointed out better the delicate shading* of its color. Had he spoken in 
the language of our time, or in such details as we find in the essayist and the novelist 
of the high school, what hot words he would have spoken against those who occupy 
street corners and crossings, and even stand at the gates of churches and theaters, that 
they may make a libertine's feast out of the beauty of the noble wives and daughters 
who may be passing and re-passing at such public doors ! But Christ could utter only 
general truths, but truths they were which helped sweep away the degradation of woman 
and the less honorable thoughts and alliances of man. Awakened by a soul so pure, 
and aided by such an organizer as the church, which decreed the permanency of marriage, 
love began to put on its rich garments and to walk a queen. Romance and poetry 
and the drama took up the general theory that the heart can love but once, and that 
in the advance of that attachment there is a paradise — beyond its tomb all is a desert. 
Even the songs of Burns rise above his actual life and sing the new theory in the 
verses to Mary in Heaven. The practice of an age is alwaj^s inferior to its ideal, and 
hence individuals here and there enter into second and third and fourth marriages when 
death has come to terminate an association ; but the high standard society has reached 
in its fundamental thought may be learned from every drama and poem and song of 
the heart. Even Byron felt the power and eloquence of this public ideal, when, in his 
deep contempt for transient beauties, he had to sigh out the longing for one fair spirit 

for a minister, 

" That he might all forget the human race, 
And hating no one, love hut only her." 

From Dante to Tennyson this highest form of human attachment has been pictured 
as existing between two only, and as undying. Beatrice in her purity, and Francesca 
in her error and disgrace, join with the later Juliet and Ophelia in a beautiful advocacy 
of the dream that these partnerships of the soul are made in heaven, and involve 
mortals like the toils of a sweet, resistless fate. In modern romantic literature, the 
ideal lover, male or female, is the one who, amid the severest trials, stands most 
unshaken, and who comes from the furnace only a purer metal. Even such sentimental 
songs as those of Tom Moore carry the reader's best judgment whenever the verses 
convey the idea that 

" Through the furnace unflinching, thy way I'll pursue, 
And guard thee, and save thee, or perish there, too." 



122 THE GOLDEN TREASITJY. 

The recent progress in the education of woman is destined to mark a great progress 
in the career of the matrimonial idea. This higher intellectual culture makes woman a 
companion for man, however eminent he may become by his study and his profession ; 
and this equality of greatness will compel a devotion, which was once ephemeral and 
largely ph^^sical, to become a sympathy as well of mind with mind. The pathetic 
attachment of John Stuart Mill to his wife, and of the Brownings to each other, are 
only visible proofs that the men and women of the present age are carrying on a 
business in courtships and marriages far more honorable and far happier than were 
affairs of the heart when the earth was peopled by Greeks and Romans and Medes 
and Persians. And out of the study of this coming history of a reformed sentiment 
and practice, there may come to the next generation of young persons a wisdom which 
will lay in deep reason the foundations of marriage, which will shun the rocks of a 
thoughtless fancy, and the yet more dangerous risks of a mere temporary passion which, in 
a few months, dies, as pass away the attachments of brutes. The ideal day will approach 
when the young man's love of some equal in wisdom, but superior in beauty of mind 
and body, and in all the forms of taste and tenderness, will be for many years an 
inspiration of each morning and evening, as it may come in gladness or in depression. 
The love of money and of fame will be humble impulses compared with the desire to 
make happy the one companion of the heart, who has left home, even the infinite 
devotion of her mother, to find, under another's roof, the care which will rival the 
mother's solicitude, and to hear from other lips words of praise and esteem, which the 
tomb will prevent the mother from speaking always to her idolized child. 

David Swing. 



A SONG OF KRISHNA. 

pm KXOW where Krishna tarries in these early days He is dancing with the dancers to a laughter-moving 

^ of Spring, tone, 

^1 When eA'ery wind from warm Malay brings fra- in the soft awakening Spring-time, when 'tis hard to 

**■ grance ouits wing; live alone. 
Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the 

^^ ^^^^' Where Kroona-flowers, that open at a lover's lightest 

In jungles where the bees hum and the Koi'l nutes tread 

her love; Break, and, for shame at what they hear, from white 

He dances with the dancers, of a merrj- niornce one. bla«h modest red 

All in the budding Spring-time, for 'tis sad to be alone. j^^^ .^^ t,;^ .p^.^^., ^^ ^{^ ^^^ ,^^^,gj^g ^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^_ 

I know how Krishna passes these hours of blue and glades 

o-qIq^ Seem ready darts to pierce the hearts of wandering 

When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely youths and maids: 

holj ' ' "Tis there thy Krishna dances till the meiTy drum is 

Hand fast in hand, and every branch upon the Vakul- clone, 

tree All in the sunny Spring-time, when who can live 

Droops downward with a hundred blooms, in every alone? 

bloom a bee; Edwin Arnold. 



-■"3-^(2 — E^ 



A MAN who has not some woman, somewhere, who believes in him, trusts him and 
loves him, has reached a point where self-respect is gone. 



LOVE AXD FRIENDSHIP. 



123 



BIRD OF PASSAGE. 



^?S the clay's last light is dying, 
g As the night's first breeze is sighing, 
~ 1 send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my 
thought through the distance flying; 



Let it perch on your sill; or, better. 
Let it feel your soft hand's fetter, 
WTiileyou search and bring, from under its wing, love, 
hidden awaj' like a letter. 

Edgar Fawcett. 



I FEAR THY KISSES. 



FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 

Thou needest not fear mine; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 

Ever to burthen thine. 



I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 

Thou needest not fear mine; 
Innocent is the hearfs devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



o^^X3^>o^o 



WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME. 



|OME, all ye jolly shepherds 

That whistle through the glen, 
1 "11 tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinua ken : 
What is the gi-eatest bliss 

That the tongue o" man can name? 
"Tis to woo a bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame! 

When the kye comes hame, 
WTien the kye comes hame, 
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, 
When the kye comes hame ! 

'Tis not beneath the coronet. 

Nor canopy of state, 
'Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbor of the great, — 
'Tis ])eneath the spreading blrk. 

In the glen without the name, 
Wi" a bonny, bonny lassie. 

When the kye comes hame ! 

There the blackbird bigs his nest 

iFor the mate he loes to see. 
And on the topmost bough, 

O, a happy bird is he; 
Wliere he pours his melting dittj% 

And love is a' the theme. 
And he "11 woo his bonny lassie 

Wlien the kye conies hame! 

When the blewart bears a pearl. 
And the daisy turns a pea. 



And the bonny lueken gowan 

Has fauldit up her eo, 
Then the laverock frae the blue lift 

Doops down, an' thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame ! 

See yonder pawkie shepherd, 

That lingers on the hill. 
His ewes are in the fauld. 

An' his lambs are lying still; 
Yet he downa gang to bed. 

For his heart is in a flame. 
To meet his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame ! 

When the little wee bit heart 

Rises high in the breast. 
An' the little wee bit starn 

Rises red in the east, 
O there's a joy sae dear. 

That the heart can hardly frame, 
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, 

WTien the kye comes hame ! 

Then since all nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
O, wlia wad prove a traitor 

To nature's dearest joy"? 
O, wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi' its perils and its fame. 
And miss his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame? 

James Hogg. 



-S'-zXs^^ 



May all go well with you ! May life's short day glide on peaceful and bright, with no 
more clouds than may glisten in the sunshine, no more rain than may form a rainbow ; 
and may the veiled one of heaven bring us to meet again. 



124 



THE GOI.DEX TEExiSUEY. 



THE PATEIOT'S BRIDE. 



^|H ! give me back that royal dream 
My fancy wrought, 
■\Mieu I have seen j'onr sunny eyes 

Grow moist with thought; 
And fondly hoped, dear Love, your licart from 
mine 
Its spell had caught; 
And laid me down to dream that dream divine. 
But true, methought. 
Of liow my life's long task would be, to make yours 
blessed as it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 

For your sweet sake. 
To watch with j'ou — dear friend, with you I — 

Its wonders break ; 
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 

Its mirror make — 
On sunmier morns to hear the sweet birds sing 

Hy linn and lake; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a 
gi-ander nuisic wake I 

To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla"s shoi-e ; 
Dear Curran"s airj^ thoughts, like purple birds 

That shine and soar; 
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows 

That Grattan swore ; 
The songs that once our own dear Davis snng — ah. 
me ! to sing no more. 



And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name. 
Whose memories are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame : 
Tlie Cairn, the Dan, the Eath. the Power, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep 

AVas Eire's fame ; 
Oh I we shall see them all, with her. that dear, dear 
friend we two liave lov'd the same. 

Yet ah I how truer, tenderer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy. that happy home 

B}' Dodder's sti-eam. 
The morning smile, that grew a fix6d star 

With love-lit beam. 
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a 
dream. 

For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, 

Or both — deal- wife. 
Your image comes with serious thoughts, 

But tender, rife ; 
Xo idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife. 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 

To walk througli life. 
Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, trae 
husband and true wife. 

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 



JANETTE'S HAIE. 




I, loosen the snood that you wear Janette. 
Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet: 
"For the world to me had no daintier sight 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder 
white ; 
Your beautiful dark brown hair — my pet. 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet; 
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed — 
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world — my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette. 
It was sine\\y, bristled and brown — my pet; 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and A'our wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of hair — my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory. Janette, 
Revealing the old, dear story — my pet; 



They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky 
A\Tien the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly. 
And they matched with your golden hair — my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no M'ords. Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet, 
UTien the spring is j'oung, and roses are wet. 
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set. 
And they suited your gold-brown hair — my pet 

Oh. you tangled my life in your hair. Janette, 
'Twas a silken and golden snai-e — my pet; 
But, so gentle the bondage, my soTil did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore. 

With my fingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were. Janette. 
AVith your lips and your eyes and your hair — my pet; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan. 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair — my pet. 

Charles Graham Halpine. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



125 



AA^OOING. 



LITTLE bird once met another bird, 

And whistled to her, " Will you be my mate?"' 
I With fluttering wings she twittered, " How 
absurd ! 
Oh, what a silly pate! " 

And off into a distant tree she flew, 

To find concealment in the shady cover; 
And passed the hours in slyly peeping through 
At her rejected lover. 

The jilted bard, with drooping heart and wing. 

Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs; 
Telling in sadness to the ear of Spring 
The story of his WTongs. 



But little thought he, while each nook and dell 

With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling. 
That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — 
Half-pitying and half-willing. 

Next month I walked the same sequestered way, 

When close together on a twig I spied them ; 
And in a nest half-hid with leaves there lay 
Four little birds beside them. 

Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop : 

When lover's hopes within their hearts you prison, 
Fly out of sight and hearing; do not stop 
To look behind and listen. 

John B. L. Soule. 




" Silver salts all out of the west, 
Under the silver moon." 



SWEET AND LOW. 



■.^\^EET and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 

' Over the rolling waters go. 

Come from the dying moon and blow. 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 



Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon : 
Rest, rest on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 

Silver sails all out of the west. 
Under the silver moon ; 

Sleep, my little one, sleep my prett>' one, sleep. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



126 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



THE BPvOOKSIDE. 



IP WAXDEEED by the brookside, 
els^ I wandered by the mill : 
i I could not hear the brook flow — 
•I The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper. 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of nij^ own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word — • 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



He came not — no, he came not — 

The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat one by one 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening wind passed b.y my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not speak one word. 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound I heard. 

ElCHARD MONCKTON MiLNES. 

(Lord Houghton). 



THE OLD STORY. 



y heart is chilled, and nij- pulse is slow. 
But often and often will memory go, 
W'^.'^ Like a blind child lost in a waste of sno-w, 
Back to the days when I loved you so — • 
The beautiful long ago. 

I sit here dreaming them through and through. 
The blissful moments I shared with you — 
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new. 
When I was trustful and you \\ere true — • 
Beautiful days, but few ! 

Blest or wretched, fettered or free. 
Why should I caj'e how your life may be, 
Or whether you wander by land or sea? 
I only know you are dead to me, 
Ever and hopelessly. 

Oh, how often at day's decline 

I pushed from my windo\\' the curtaining vine. 



To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine — 
Type of a message that, half divine, 

Flashed from youi- heart to mine. 

Once more the starlight is silvering all; 
The roses sleep by the garden wall ; 
The night bird warbles his madrigal. 
And I hear again through the sweet air fall 
The evening bugle call. 

But summers will vanish and years will wane, 
And bring no light to your window-pane; 
No gracious sunshine or patient rain 
Can bring dead love back to life again : 
I call up the jDast in vain. 

My heart is heavy, my heart is old. 
And that proves dross which I counted gold ; 
I watch no longer your curtain's fold ; 
The window is dark and the night is cold. 
And the story forever told. 

Elizabeth Akeks Allen. 

(Florence Percy). 



-i^sS-S^ 



EVENING SONG. 



^OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea : 
' How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — 
Ah ! lono-er, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun. 
As Egj'pt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine. 



And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; 
Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. 
O Xight! divorce our sun and sky apart — 
Never our lips, our hands. 

Sidney Lanier. 



LOVE AXD FRIENDSHIP. 



12? 



A PARTING. 



INCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part: 
^I Nay, I have done ; yon get no more of me ; 
IC' And I am glad, yea, glad \\ith all my heart. 
jF That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 
And, when A\-e meet at any time again. 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 



Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing u\) his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, Avhen all have given him over, 

From death to life thou mighfst him yet recover. 



Michael Drayton. 



o>o^^<^o 




■• Watcli o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove.'' 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



Jl 



;EE, by her smile, how soon the stranger knoAvs; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows. 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy. 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word, 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; 

And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 

When rosy sleep comes on Avith sweet surprise. 



Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear forever on his tongue). 
As Avith soft accents round her neck he clings. 
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings : 
IIoAV blest to feel the b'^atings of his lieart. 
Breathe his sAveet breath, and bliss for bliss impart: 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

Samuel Eogers. 



I DO CONFESS THOIT ^RT SAVEET. 



DO confess thou "rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of th}' sweets. 

Thy favors are but like the Avind, 
That kisses everything it meets. 

And since thou can Avith more than one. 

Thou 'rt Avorthy to be kissed by none. 



The morning rose, that imtouched stands. 
Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! 

But plucked and strained through ruder hands. 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

But scent and beauty both are gone. 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 



128 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUKY. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 



|OiIE live with me and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hill and valley, grove and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 
There will we sit upon the rocks. 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
There will I make thee beds of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; 



A gown made of the finest wool 
■\Vhich from our pretty lambs we puD ; 
Slippers lin"d choicely for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 
A belt of straw and ivj' buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs. 
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning ; 
And if these ])leasures maj' thee move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 



-JssS— ss 



THE NTIvIPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. 



ipF all the world and love were young 
(M> And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
^ These pretty pleasures might me move 
l To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold. 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
And Philomel becometh dumb. 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle. and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and iAy buds. 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs; 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
Then these delights m_y mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Kaleigh, 



LOVE IS A SICKNESS. 



ff^TgOVE is a sickness full of woes . 

All remedies refusing; 
°Sa^ a plant that most with cutting grows, 
■I Most barren with best using. 

^Yhy so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heis:h-ho ! 



Love is a torment of the mind. 

A tempest everlasting; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind. 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
WTiyso? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



FREEDOM IN DRESS. 



|g>TILL to be neat, still to be drest, 

As j'ou were going to a feast ; 
[!;>,, Still to be powdered, still perfumed - 
<ji Lady, it is to be presumed, 
Though arfs hid causes are not found. 
All is not sweet, all is not sound. 



Give me a look, give me a face. 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free — 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Thau all the adulteries of art: 

They strike mine ej'es, but not my heart. 

Ben Jonson. 



LOVE AND FKIENDSHIP. 



129 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 



|N a hill there grows a flower, 
.^^g,^^ Fair hef all the dainty sweet! 
*7f^ By the flower there is a hower 
J.i "Where the heavenly niuses meet. 

In that bower there is a chair, 
Fringed all about with gold, 

Where doth sit the fairest fair 
That ever eye did yet behold. 

It is Phillis, fair and bright. 
She that is the shepherd's joy. 



She that Venus did despite, 
And did blind her little boy. 

Who would not that face admire? 

Who would not this saint adore? 
Who Avould not this sight desire? 

Though he thought to see no more. 

Thou that art the shepherd's queen. 
Look upon thy love-sick swain ; 

By thy comfort have been seen 
Dead men brought to life again. 

Nicholas Breton. 



-. — '-'1'2/2^^2/la^-* — *- 




" We sat in the hush of Summer eves, 
Saying but little, yet loving much." 

YOU AND I. 



U^HAT if either of us should die? 

Could the hearts that have loved us so tenderlv 
i^pl^ Be severed by death? Not so ! not so ! 

%•" My soul leans out from its house of clay. 
When the breeze that has fanned your cheek goes by, 
And says : " She's near! "' T feel the touch 
Of her lip to mine ! of her hand, at play 



With my hair as it did, when, long ago. 
We sat in the hush of summer eves, 
Saying but little, j'et loving much. 
And believing all that Love believes. 
And so I know, whate'er I list, 
Our souls shall keep thy holy tryst 
Through all the 3-ears of the life to be. 

W. II. Burleigh. 



130 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



0, SAW YE THE LASS. 



r( v, SAW ye the lass wi" the bonnie blue een? 

^M Her .smile is tlie sweetest that ever was seen, 

Her cheelc like the rose is, but fresher, I ween ; 
F She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. 
The home of my love is below in the valley, 
^\^lere wild flowers welcome the wandering bee : 
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen 
Ts the maid that I love Avi" the bonny bine een. 



-^'i).- 



When night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
She "11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again; 
And when the moon shines on the valley so green, 
111 welcome the lass wi' the bonnj" blue een. 
As the dove that has wandered away from his nest 
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, 
ril fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, 
To my dear one. the lass wi" the bonny blue een. 

RiCHAKD Ryan. 



AVE PARTED IN SILENCE. 



^^^E parted in silence, we parted by night, 
§^Ml On the bauks of that lonely river; 
^M^ Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. 
't"' We met— and we parted forever ! 

The night-bird sung and the stars above 

Told many a touching stoiy. 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

■AVhere the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 
With the tears that were past controlling; 

We vowed we would nevei-, no never, forget, 
And those vows at the time were consoling. 



But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonelj- river; 
And that eye. that beautiful spirit's shrine. 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look. 
And my heart grows full of weepiug; 

Each star is to me a sealed book, 
Some tale of that loved one keeping. 

We parted iu silence — we parted in tears, 
On the banks of that lonely river ; 

But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 
Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

Julia Crawford. 



-^^; 



COME TO ME, DEAREST. 



ioilE to me. dearest. I"m lonely without thee. 
Daj'time and night-time, I'm thinking about 

thee ; 
Night-time and daytime, in dreams I l)ehokl 
thee ; 

Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. 
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten. 
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, 
Come in thy loviugness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows will tlit round the desolate ruin. 
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; 
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure. 
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
O Spring of my spirit. O May of my bosom. 
Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom : 
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can a\ in it. 

Figure that moves like a song through the even : 
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. 
^\iiere shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; 



Smiles coming seldom. iDut childlike and simple. 
Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — 
O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thj' seeming 
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 

You have been glad when you knew I was glad- 
dened ; 
Dear, are you sad now, to hear I am saddened? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. 
As octave to octave, and rhyme imto rhj-nie, love : 
I cannot weep but your tears will be flo\\'ing, 
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; 
I would not die without you at mv side, love, 
You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 

Come to me. dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow. 
Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, 

love. 
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, 

love. 
Come, for my heait in your absence is weaiy, — 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreaiy, — 
Come to the arms which alone should caress thee. 
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! 

Joseph Brenkan. 



LOVE AKD FRIENDSHIP. 



131 



ABSENCE. 



IHEOM you have I been absent in the spring, 
IS "WTien proud-pied April, dressed in all his ti-im, 

fHath put a spirit of youth in everything 
That heavy Saturn laugh"d, and leaped with him : 
Yet nor the lay of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odor and in hue, 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 
Or from then- proud lap pluck them where they grew : 



Nor did I wonder at the lily"s white, 
iSTor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. 
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 
A.S with your shadow I with these did play. 

William Shakespkake. 



WHY so PALE AND A¥AN, FOND LOVEE. 



sHY so pale and wan, fond lover I 
Prythee why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 
, ., Looking ill prevail"? 

Prythee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner! 
Prythee why so mute? 



Will, when speaking well can't win her. 
Saying nothing do "t? 
Prythee why so nmte? 

Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move. 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herseK she will not love, 

Nothing can make her 

The devil take her ! 

Siu John Suckling. 



-S^7 



,4,. — 



DON'T BE SOREOWFUL, DARLING. 



^^--" 



^' DON'T be sorrowful, darling! 
' And don't be sorrowful, pray; 
-j\ Taking the year together, my dear, 
There isn't more night than day. 

'Tis rainy weather, my darling; 

Time's waves the_y heavily run; 
But taking the year together, my dear. 

There isn't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling. 
Our heads are growing gray ; 

But taking the year all round, my dear. 
You ■w'iU always find the May. 



We have had our May, mj'^ darling, 

And our roses long ago ; 
And the time of the year is coming, my dear, 

For the silent night and the snow. 

But God is God, mj' darling. 

Of the night as well as the day ; 
And we feel and know that we can go 

Wherever He leads the way. 

A God of the night, my darling 

Of the night of death so gi-im ; 
The gate that leads out of life, good wife. 

Is the gate that leads to Plim. 

Eembrandt Peale. 



JULIA. 



jiP^pME ask'd me where the i-ubies grew, 
'^L3} And nothing I did say, 
^■liK^ut with my finger pointed to 
j-i The lips of Julia. 

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where; 
Then spoke I to my girle, 



To part her lips, and shewed them there 
The quarelets of pearl. 

One ask'd me where the roses grew ; 

I bade him not go seek; 
But forthwith bade my Julia sho^^' 

A bud in either cheek. 

Robert Herri ck. 



132 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 




" I saw her pace, witli quiet grace, the shaded path along." 



THE BLOOM AYAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL 

ON TLIE COKN. 

W§i HEAED the bob-white whistle in the de\\y breath I stood with beating heart beside the babbling 

Pi of morn; Mac-o-chee. 

i| The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the To see my love come down the gien to keep her tijst 

■'' corn. with me. 



T.OVE AXD FRIENDSHIP. 



100 
J 00 



I saw her pace, ^\'ith quiet grace, the shaded path 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- 
along, lit dream — 
And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the 



song. 
Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 
She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little 

queen. 



rippling stream; 
'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to bear the south 

winds sigh. 
More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, 

low reply. 



The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life. 



Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden 

shone 
_ , ' . 1, n - 1 u 1 1 IT 4^1, To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its 

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth .. 



unknown. 
The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on 

bended knee 
For love this gracious princess gave, with all her 

heart, to me. 

So like a startled fawn before my longing ej'es she 
stood, 

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman- 
hood. 

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, 



strife. 
'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned 

from above ; 
My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me 

her love. 

Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim 

with tears — 
I think upon the loving faith of all these bj-gone 

years, 
For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy 

morn. 



And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on 
to be mine. the corn. 

Don Piatt. 



THE GO WAN GLITTERS ON" THE SWARD. 



3|HE gowan glitters on the sward. 

The laverock's in the sky, 

^^And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. 

And time is i^assing by. 

O, no ! sad and slow, • 

And lengthened on the ground ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush 
It wears so slowly round. 

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, 

My lambs are bleating near ; 
But still the sound that I love best, 
Alack ! I canna hear. 
O, no ! sad and slow, 

The shadow lingers still; 
And like a lanely gaist I stand, 
And croon upon the hill. 

I hear below the water roar. 
The mill wi' clacking din. 
And Lucky scolding frae the door. 
To ca' the bairnies in. 
O, no ! sad and slow. 

These are nae sounds for me ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush 
It creeps sae drearily. 



I cof t j-estreen, frae Chapman Tarn, 

A snood o' bonnie bine, 
And promised, ^\■hen our tiysting cam'. 
To tie it round her brow. 
O, no ! sad and slow. 

The mark it winna' pass: 
The shadow o' that dreaiy bush 
Is tethered on the grass. 

O, now I see her on the way I 

She's past the witch's knowe; 
She's climbing up the brownie's brae; 
My heart is in a lowe. 
0, no ! 'tis not so, 

'Tis glamrie I hae seen ; 
The shadow o' that hawthorn bush 
Will move nae mair till e'en. 

My book o' grace I'll try to read, 
Though conned wi' little skill ; 
>Vhen Collie barks I'll raise mv head. 
And find her on the hill. 
O, no ! sad and slow. 

The time will ne'er be gane; 
The shadow o' our trysting l)ush 
Is flxed like ony stane. 

Joanna Baillie. 



134 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 



j^HE walks in beautj', like the night 
fl Of cloudless climes and stany skies, 
.'And all thafs best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her ej'es, 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 



Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How i)ure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness silent — 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron. 



AUX ITALIENS. 



otfe 



^(^T Paris it was, at the opera there ; 
^IP^ And she looked like a queen in a book that 
^^ff night, 

ll With the wTeath of pearls in her raven hair, 
And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
ITie souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 

And who ^^'as not thrilled in the strangest way. 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 

" JVo7i ti scordar di me ? " 

The Emperor there, in his box of state. 
Looked grave; as if he had just seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate, 
WTiere his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
again, 

For one moment, under the old blue sky 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 

My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 
,Vnd hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad — 

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm. 

With that regal, indolent air she had — 
So confident of her charm! 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was, 

AVho died the richest and roundest of men. 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven. 

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; 
I wish him well for the jointure given 

To my lady of Carabas. 



Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years; 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
AMien we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together. 

In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
In the pleasant evening weather; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) , 
And her warm white neck in its golden chain; 

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, 
And falling loose again ; 

Of the jasmine flower that she wore in her breast, 
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower I) 

And the one bird singing alone in his nest, 
And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife. 
And the letter that brought me back my ring; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life. 
Such a very little thing! 

For T thought of her grave below the hill, 
AMiich the sentinel cj'press-tree stands over: 

And I thought, '-Were she only living still. 
How I could forgive her and love her I" 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. 

And of how, after all, old things are best. 
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 

WTiich she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. 

It made me ci-eep. and it made me cold! 
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 

"Where a mumni}' is half unrolled. 

And I turned and looked : she was sitting there, 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, 
And that iasniine in her breast! 



LOVE AND FKIENDSHIP. 



135 



I was here, and she was there ; 

And the glittering horseshoe curved between! — 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous scornful mien, 

To ray early love with her eyes downcast. 
And over her primrose face the shade,, 

(In short, from the future back to the past,) 
There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 

I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 
Or something which never will be exprest. 

Had brought her back from the grave again, 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, 

My heart grew youthful again. 



The marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; 
And but for her — well, we '11 let that pass; 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face, for old things are best; 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin, 
And love must cling where it can, I say : 

For beauty is easj^ enough to win ; 
But one is n't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and men. 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and 
even. 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But O, the smell of that jasmine flower! 

And O, the music! and O, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower — 

Non ti scordar di me, 

Non ti scordar di me ! 

Robert Bulwer Lytton. 



THE WELCOME. 



|OME in the evening or come in the morning, 
I Come when you're looked for, or come without 
^ \\arning. 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll 
adore you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't 



I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 
I'U fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 

Oh I your step's like the rain to the summer -vexed 
farmer. 

Or saber and shield to a knight without armor ; 

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 

Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love 
me. 



We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the ejTJe, 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy. 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river. 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably 

beaming. 
And trust, when in secret most tunefullj- streaming. 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver. 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.'' 

So come in the evening or come in the morning. 
Come when you're looked for, or come without warn- 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't 
sever." 

Thomas Davis. 



■s<i^ 



Never burn kindly written letters : it is so pleasant to read them over when the ink 
is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hands that traced the friendly words are 
folded over the hearts that prompted them. Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh 
ones, and in burning, forgive and forget them. 



136 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



A PASTORAL. 



py time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 
1^1^ When PhcEbe went with me wherever I went ; 
^P^ Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 
T breast : 

I Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! 
I But now she is gone and has left me behind, 
'What a marvellous change on a sudden I find I 
"When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
1 thought "t was the Spring; but alas! it was she. 



But now I so cross and so peevish am grown. 
So strangelj' uneasy, as never -was known. 
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned. 
And mj' heart — I am sure it weighs more than a 
pound. 

The fountain that wont to run sweeth- along. 
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; 
Thou kno\v"st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 
'T was pleasm-e to look at, "t was music to hear : 




' For ne'er was poor shepherd so sudly forlorn." 



AVith such a companion to tend a few sheep, 
To rise tip and play, or to lie down and sleep : 
I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay. 
My heart was as light as a feather all day ; 



But now she is absent, I walk by its side. 
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; 
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? 
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me 
complain. 



lo\t: and friendship. 



137 



Mj' lambkins around me would oftentimes pla^-. 
And PhcEbe and I were as jojrful as they; 
How pleasant their sporting, how happ.y their time. 
When Spring, Love, and Beauty wei-e all in their 

prime : 
But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; 
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, 
To see j'ou so merry while I am so sad. 

My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; 
And PhcEbe ^\■as pleased too, and to my dog said, 
"Come hither, ijoor fellow; " and patted his head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my 

crook : 
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray 
Be as dull as his master, when Phabe "s away? 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have 1 
seen. 
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green I 
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, 
The cornfields and hedges and everything made! 
But now she has left me, though all are still there, 
The}' none of them now so delightful appear : 
'T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 
Made so many beautiful prospects ai-ise. 

Sweet music went A\ith us both all the wood 
through, 
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale, too; 
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat. 
And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our feet. 



Cut now she is absent, though still they sing on, 
The woods are but lonelj', the melody's gone : 
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. 
Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? 
And where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
Does aught of its sweetness the blossoms beguile? 
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? 
Ah! rivals, I see why it was that j'ou drest. 
And made yourselves fine for — ai^lace in her breast; 
You put on your colors to pleasure her eye. 
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. 

How slowly Time creeps till my Phcebe return! 
\\niile amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn : 
Methinks if I knew -whereabouts he -vx'ould tread, 
I could breathe on his wings, and "t would melt 

down the lead. 
Fl.y swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. 
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. 
Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay. 
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst 

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, 
Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? 
To be cured, thou nmst, Colin, thy passion remove ; 
But what swain is so sill}^ to live without love! 
No, deitj-, bid the dear n}^nph to return. 
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; 
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with j'our 
fair. 

John Byrom. 



SS-^>3 



LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 



||lp|HE racing river leaped and sang 
^S^ Full blithely in the perfect weather. 
*'■}'' All round the mountain echoes rang, 
3 For blue and green wei-e glad together 

This rains out light from everj' part. 

And that with songs of joy was thrilling; 

But in the hollow of my heart. 
There ached a place that wanted filling. 

Before the I'oad and river m6et, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet. 
And paused to like it, and to listen. 

I heard the chanting waters flow. 
The cushat's note, the bee's low humming. 

Then turned the hedge, and did not know — 
How could I? that my time was coming. 

A girl upon the highest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standin.'-. 



So far the shallow flood had flown. 
Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 

She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she wanted all unweeting; 

She thought not I had crossed the sea. 
And half the sphere, to give her meeting. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moments had been hours; 
I took her in my arms and set 

Her daintj^ feet among the flowers. 

Her fellow-maids in copse and lane. 

Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; 
The wind's soft whisper in the plain. 

That cushat's coo, the water's falling. 

But now it is a year ago. 

And now possession cro-wns endeavor; 
I took her in my heart to gi-ow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 

Jean Ingelow. 



138 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



A SPIXXING-ATHEEL SOXG. 

JgELLO W the moonlight to i?hine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother sit- 
ting, 
Is croning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
ting. 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 




" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flap- 
ping." 
"Eileen. T surely liear somebody sighing." 



And he whispers, vnth face bent, •' I'm waiting for 

3'ou, loye. 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly; 
We'll roye in the grove while the moon's shining 
brightly.'' 
MeiTily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Svyings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring; 
Sprightlj', and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the svyeet voice of the young maiden singing. 




' Close bv the window youni^ Eileen is spinninij; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting 



'"Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer vyiud 

dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily wliirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, vyhile the foot's 

stuTing ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airilj- ringing. 
Thrills the sweet yoice of the young maiden singing. 

" What's that noise that I hear at the window. 1 
vyonder? " 

" 'Tis the little birds chirping the hollj'-bush under." 

" What makes you be shoving and moving your stool 
on, 

And singing all v\Tong that old song of • The 
Cooluu? ' " 

There's a form at the casement — the form of her true- 
love ; 



The maid shakes her head, on her lip laj-s her fingers, 
Steals up from her seat, longs to go — ^and yet lingers; 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the 

other. 
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; 
Slowly and lowly is heard no\y the reel's sound. 
Xoiseless and light to the lattice abov^e her 
The maid steps — then leaps to the arms of her lover. 

Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings. 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 
moving, 

llirough the grove the young lovers by moonlight 
are roving. 

John Fraxcis AValler. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



139 



WE TWAIN. 



Sjp&fl. Earth and Heaven are far apart I 



i 



^gfr^ Bnt what if they were one, 
^^SAnd neither you nor I, Sweetheart, 
Had anyway misdone? 
When we like singing rivers fleet 

That cannot choose hut flow, 
Among the flowers should meet and greet, 
Should meet and mingle so, 
Sweetheart, 
That would he sweet, I know. 

No need to swerve and drift apart, 

Or any hliss resign : 
Then I should all be yours, Sweetheart, 

And you would all be mine. 
But ah, to rush, defiled and brown, 

From thaw of smirched snow. 
To spoil the corn, beat down and drown 

The rath red lilies low, — 
Sweetheart, 
I do not want vou so ! 



For you and I are far apart, 

And never may we meet. 
Till you are glad and grand, Sweetheart, 

Till I am fair and sweet; 
Till morning-light has kissed us white 

As highest Alpine snow. 
Till both are bra-\'e and bright of sight. 

Go wander high or low. 
Sweetheart; 
For God will have it so. 

Oh, Heaven and Earth ai'e far apart I 

If you are bond or free. 
And if j^ou climb or crawl. Sweetheart, 

Can no way hinder me. 
But see you come in lordly state. 

With mountain winds aglow. 
When I by dazzling gate shall wait 

To meet and love you so, 
Sweetheart, — 
That will be Heaven, I know. 

Amanda T. Jones. 



MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. 



^S|pY true-love hath my heart, and 1 have his, 
^0@^ By just exchange one to the other given; 
^i|^ I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
"r There never was a better bargain driven ; 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 



His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 

I cherish his because in me it bides; 
My ti'ue-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



GO, PRETTY BIRDS. 



gE little birds that sit and sing 

Amidst the shady valleys. 
And see how Phillis sweetly walks, 

Within her garden alleys ; 
Go, pretty birds, about her bower; 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; 
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown! 
Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, 

As you bj^ me are bidden. 
To her is only known my love. 

Which from the woi-ld is hidden. 
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so; 
See that your notes strain not too low, 
For still, methinks, I see her frown. 
Ye pretty wantons, warble. 



Go, tune your voices' harmony. 

And sing, I am her lover; 
Strain loud and sweet, that every note 

With sweet content ma.y move her. 
And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
Tell her I will not change my choice ; 
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown. 
Ye pretty wantons, warble. 

O, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls 

Into a pretty slumber. 
Sing round about her rosy bed. 

That, waking, she may wonder. 
Say to her, 'tis her lover true 
That sendeth love to you, to you; 

And when j^ou hear her kind reply, 
Return with pleasant warblings. 

Thomas Hevwood. 



140 



THE GOLDEX TEE,1SUET. 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAT SOXG. 



ff ' iS' ^^ love's like the steadfast sun. 

Or streams that deepen as they run; 
'"i ■ '" Xor hoary hau-s. uor forty years. 
J^. Xor moments between sighs and tears, 
N'or nights of thought, uor days of pain, 
Xor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. 
Xor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes. 
Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and niati'on wit; 

Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree. 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet, 
And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eve and touched thy rose, 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or songf. 



"When words descend like dews, unsought 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy .in her heaven tlies free. 
They come, my love, they come fi-om thee, 

O, when more thought we gave, of old. 
To silver than some give to gold, 
'T was sweet to sit and ponder o"er 
How we should deck our humble bower ; 
'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
The golden fruit of fortune's tree; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A giirland for that brow of thine — 
A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought. 
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light: 
And Hope that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; 
O. then I see, while seated nigh. 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye. 
And proud resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak. 
I think this wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that's not divine. 

Allan Cu:vn"ixgham. 




TTIFE, CHILDREN, AXD FRIEXDS. 



(fHEX the black-lettered list to the gods was 
presented 
(The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) , 
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented. 
And slipped in three blessings — wife, chil- 
dren, and friends. 

In vain surlj' Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
For justice divine could not compass its ends; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. 
For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, 
and friends. 

If the stock of our bliss is in sti-anger hands vested. 

The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends: 
But the heart issues bills which are never protested. 

When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, and 
friends. 

Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers. 
The death-wounded tar. who his colors defends. 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
How blessed was his home with — wife, children, 
and friends. 

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story. 
Whom dut\' to far distant latitudes sends. 



With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover. 
Though for him all Arabia's fragrance ascends. 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
The bower where he sat with — wife, children, and 
friends. 

The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow. 

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; 
But drear is the twilight of age. if it borrow 

Xo warmth from the smile of — wife, children, and 
friends. 

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends; 

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. 
Bedewed with the tears of — wife, children, and 
friends. 

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. 

To subjects too solemn insensiblj' tends; 
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall 
flavor 
The glass which I fill to — wife, children, and friends. 
William Egbert Spexcek. 



LOVE AND FEIENDSHIP. 



141 



THE SHEPHERD'S LOVE. 



^, 



EKE she was wont to go? and here! and here! 
Just where those daisies, pinlis, and violets 
'..^ grow, 

i j The ^^'orld may find the Spring by following 

her 
For other print her airy steps ne'er left: 



Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 
Or shake the downy blown-ball from his stalk ! 
But like the soft west wind she shot along, 
And where she went the flowers took thickest I'oot, 
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot! 

Ben Jonson. 



^==3-^^s 




" Love thy mother, little one ! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again." 

TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 



|OVE thy mother, little one ! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again; 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain; 
Love thy inotlj^r, little one! 

Gaze upon her living eyes. 

And mirror back her love for thee ; 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 

To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes. 

Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have of tea told; 



Hereafter thou must press in woe. 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow ! 

Oh ! revere her raven hair ! 

Although it be not silver-gray*— 
For early Death, led on by Care, 

May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh! revere her raven hair! 

Pray for her at eve and morn. 

That Heaven may long the stroke defer; 
For thou iiiay'st live the hour forlorn 
When ihou wilt ask to die N\'ith her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn. 

Thomas Hood. 



142 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 




TRUE LOVE. 



!ET me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impedimeuts : love is not love 
Whicli alters when it altei-ation finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove; 
O, no I it is an ever-flxed marli. 
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 
It is the star to ever.v wandering hark. 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 



Love's not Time's fool, though rosj" lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not Avith his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me prov'd. 
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 

William Shakespeare. 



O, SAW TE BONNIE LESLEY? 



^m _ 

a^?, SXW ve bonnie Lcslev 
^^M ^^s she gaed o'er the border? 
*^^ She's gane. like Alexander. 
* To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her forever; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Leslej'. 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The deil he could na scaith thee. 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face. 

And say, " I canna wrang thee! *' 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

jSIisfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee! 

Eeturn again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie! 
That ^\'e may brag \\e hae a lass 

There "s nane again sae bonnie. 

Robert Burns. 



2^^5-^ 



SONG. 



T setting day and rising morn. 

With soul that still shall love thee, 
I'll ask of Heaven th}^ safe return, 
K With all that can improve thee. 
I'll visit aft the birken bush 

"Where first thou kindlj' told me 
Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush. 
AVTiilst round thou didst enfold me. 



To all our haunts I Mill repair. 

By greenwood shaw or fountain ; 
Or where the summer day I'd share 

With thee upon yon mountain : 
There will I tell the trees and flowers. 

From thoughts unfeigned and tender; 
By vows you're mine, by love is yours 

A heart which cannot wander. 

John Gay. 



^><»t-^SX^o 



A GIRDLE. 



gHAT which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this hath done. 

It was my heaven's ex^tremest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 



My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 

Edjiltnd Waller. 



LOVE AND FEIENDSHIT. 



143 



PHILIP MT KING. 




|00K at me with thy large hrown eyes, 
Philip my king, 
"T^Jttound whom the enshadowing ptirple lies 
ll Of babyhood's royal dignities : 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 
With love's invisible scepter laden; 
I am thine Esther to command 
Till shou Shalt find a queen-handmaiden, 
Philip my king. 



JJp from thj- sweet month — np to thy brow, 

Philip my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant and make men bo^v 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers : 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer 
Let me behold thee in f nture years ; — 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 

Philip my king. 



|&:^^C;^ X ^ X, 




" L;iy on my neck thy tiny hand, 
With love's invisible sceptre laden." 



the daj' when thou goest a wooing, 

Philip my king ! 
Wlieu those beautiful lips 'gin suing. 
And some gentle heart's bars undoing 
Tliou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 
Sittest love-glorified. Kule kindly. 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair. 
For we that love, ah? we love so blindly, 

Philip my king. 



A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day. 

Philip my king, 
Thou, too, must tread, as we ti-od, a way 
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
Eebels within thee and foes without. 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glu 

rious, 
Martyr, yet monarch : till angels shout, 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious. 

" Philip the king ! " 

Dinah Makia Milock Cuaik. 



Feank explanations with friends in case of 
ship, and even place it on a firmer basis than 
ends badly. 



affronts, sometimes save a perishing friend- 
at first; but secret discontentment always 



144 



THE GOLDEX TREASUKY. 



AFTOX WATER. 



jpyLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Ki Flow gently, lllsing thee a song in thy praise; 
Ak My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
* Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodland the primroses b.Oiv; 
There oft as mild evening Meeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Maiy and me. 




*' How loftv, sweet Afton, tliy neighboring- hil 



Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the 

glen. 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in you thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you distui-b not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
Jly flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 



Thy crystal stream. Afton. ho^^' lovely it glides, 
jVnd winds by the cot Mhere my ]Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet tlowerets she stems thy clear 
wave. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy imu-muring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Robert Bikns. 



Love would put a new face on this dreaiy old world in which we dwell as pagans and 
enemies too long ; and it would warm the heart to see how fast the vain diplomacy of 
statesmen, the impotence of armies and navies and lines of defense, would be superseded 
b}^ this unarmed child. 



LOVE .ViSTD FEIENDSHIP. 



145 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES O ! 



lEEEN grow the rashes O, 
i Green grow the rashes O ; 

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses O ! 

There's naught but care on ev'rj' hau', 

lu every hour that passes ; 
What signifles the life o' man, 

An "t were na for the lasses O ? 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still maj^ fly them O ; 

An' though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O ! 



Gie me a cannj- hour at e'en, 

My arms about mj- dearie O, 
An' warly cares an' warly men 

May all gae tapsalteerie ! 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're naught but senseless asses O ; 

The wisest man the Avarl' e'er saw 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses O! 

Auld ISTature swears the lovelj" dears 
Her noblest work she classes O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses ! 

Egbert Burns. 



A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. 



J^^EE the chariot at hand here of Love, 
.^^ "Wherein my lady rideth ! 
"X^ Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 
I And well the car Love guideth. 
t As she goes all hearts do dutj^ 
Unto her beauty ; 
And, enamour'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 
Than words that soothe he:-! 



And from her arched brows such a grace 
^ Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily gro\^' 

Before rude hands have touched it? 
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver? 
Or swan's down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? 

Or the nard in the fire? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 
O so white ! O so soft! O so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 



a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 
The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wild woods gro\\', and rivers roA\', 

And mouie a hill 's between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 
Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There *s not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me of my Jean. 

Egbert Burns. 



Real friendship is of slow growth. It seldom arises at first sight. Nothing but our 



vanity will make us think so. 
and reciprocal merit. 



It never thrives unless engrafted upon a stock of known 



146 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 




THE LILY-POND. 



^OME faiiy spirit with his waud, 
^m I think, has hovered o"er the dell. 
Ijjj^ And spi-ead this film upon the pond. 

And touched it with this dl•o^\'sy spell. 



For here the mvising soul is mer2;ed 
In woods no other scene can brina^, 



And sweeter seems the air when scom-ged 
With wandering wild-hee's mnrmnring. 

One ripple streaks the little lake. 
Sharp piirple-hlue ; the birches, thin 

And silveiy, cro^^'d the edge, yet break 
To let a straying sunbeam in. 



LOVE AND FEIENDSnrP. 



147 



How came we through the yielding wood, 
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore? 

Oh! there together while we stood, 
A butterfly was wafted o'er. 

In sleepy light; and eveu now 

His glinmiering beauty doth return 

Upon nie when the soft winds blow, 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. 

The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth 
To yield unto our happy march ; 

Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both 
Could pass its green, elastic ai-ch. 

Yet there, at last, upon the marge 
We found ourselves, and there, behold, 

In hosts the lilies, white and large. 
Lay close with hearts of downy gold ! 

Deep in the weedy waters spread 
The rootlets of the placid bloom : 



So sprung my love's flower, that was bred 
In deep still waters of hearfs-gloom. 

So sprung ; and so that morn was nursed 

To live in light, and on the pool 
Wherein its roots were deep immersed 

Burst into beauty broad and cool. 

Few words were said, as moments passed; 

I know not how it came — that awe 
And ardor of a glance that cast 

Our love in universal law. 

But all at once a bird sang loud. 
From dead twigs of the gleamy beech ; 

His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, 
A blessing on our married speech. 

Ah, Love ! how fresh and rare, even now. 
That moment and that mood return 

Upon me, when the soft winds blow, 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn ! 

George Paksons Lathrop. 



CUPID AND OAMPASPE. 



UPID and my Campaspe play'd 
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 
-7- He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 
i His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 
Loses them too, and down he throws 
The (;oral of his lip — the rose 
Growing on "s cheek, but none knows how; 



With these the crystal on his brow, 
And then the dimple of his chin; 
All these did my Campaspe win ; 
At last he set her both his eyes, 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
O Love, hath she done this to thee? 
What shall, alas, become of me ! 

John Lyly. 



THE DAT RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 



J| HE day returns, my bosom burns. 
The blissful day we twa did meet; 
Though winter wild in tempest toiled, 
Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 
And crosses o'er the sultry line, — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes. 
Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. 



While day and night can bring delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, — 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 

KOBERT Burns. 



Cultivate a spirit of love. Love is the diamond amongst the jewels of the believer's 
breastplate. The other graces shine like the precious stones of nature, with their own 
peculiar lustre, and various hues ; now in white all the colors are united, so in love is 
centred every other grace and virtue; love is the fulfilling of the law. 



10 



148 



THE GOLDEN TREASUHY. 



FRIENDSHIP. 



RUDDY (li-op of manly blood 
The surgiug sea outweighs ; 
The world imcertaiu comes aud goes, 
I" The lover rooted stays. 
5 I fancied he was fled, — 
And, after many a year, 
Glowed unexhausted kindliness, 
Like daily sunrise there. 
My careful heart was free again ; 
O friend, my bosom said. 



Thiough thee alone the skj' is arched, 

Thi'ough thee the i-ose is red ; 

All things through thee take nobler form. 

And look beyond the earth; 

The mill-round of our fate appears 

A sim-path in thy worth. 

Me too thj^ nobleness has taught 

To master my despair ; 

The fountains of my hidden life 

Are through thy friendship fair. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



s^s 



O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR. 



I, LAY thy hand in mine, dear! 

We're growing old; 
^But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 

That hearts grow cold. 
"Tis long, long since our new love 

Made life divine ; 
But age enricheth true love. 
Like noble wine. 

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear. 

And take thy rest ; 
Mine arms around thee twine, dear. 

And make thy nest. 



A many cai-es are pressing 

On this dear head ; 
But Sorrow's hands in blessing 

Are surely laid. 

O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 

'Twill shelter thee. 
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear 

On my young tree. 
And so, till boughs are leafless. 

And songbirds flown, 
We'll twine, then lay us. griefless. 

Together down. 

Gekald Massey. 




Part III. 




Itmp0i^0 o£ Mature. 



<\(^m^/^ 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



-p=?j^> — j^te=4- 




" The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave." 



A FOREST HYMN. 



lYjPiHE groves were God's first temples. Ere iiiau 
learned 



^^ 



To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 



J-l And spread the roof above them — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 



Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
And offei'ed to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place. 
And from tlie gray old trunks that high in heaven 

151 



152 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit \\'ith the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, whj' 

Should we, in the world's i-iper years, neglect 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Onl}' among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least. 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn — thrice happy if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thj' hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
LTpon the naked eai-th, and forthwith rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. Thej^ in thj^ sun 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Amoug their branches, till at last they stood. 
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults. 
These winding aisles, of human i^omp or pride 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of th}^ fair works. But thou art here — thou filFst 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music; thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground. 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship; — nature, here, 
lu the tranquility that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around. 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs. 
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou has not left 
Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This mightj' oak. — 
By whose inuuovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated. — not a prince. 
In all that proud old world beyond the deep. 
E'er wore his crown as loftilj' as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 
With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 



Seems, a:? it issues from the shapeless mould. 
An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soiil of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me Avhen I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
In silence, round me, — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternitj-. 
Lo! all grow old and die; but see again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses, — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that theu- ancestors 
Moulder beneath them, O, there is not lost 
One of Earth's charms! ujion her bosom yet. 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies. 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre. 
And of the triumphs of his ghastlj^ foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoaiy trees and rocks 
Ai-ound them; — and there have been holy men 
"\^Tio deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Eetire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble vn-tue. Here its enemies, 
Tlie jjassions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call. 
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and laj's his strifes and follies by? 
O, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the ■^^^.•ath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty'. 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



"WlLLIA.M CULLEN BkYANT. 



GLIMPSES OF XATUEE. 



153 




THE KIGHTII^GALE. 



HE famed nightingale, Luscinia pMlomela, is unknown in America, but in 
England and throughout Europe it is deemed the prince of singers. In 
the evening, after most of nature's sounds are hushed, the nightingale 
begins its song, and sings with little rest, all the night. It rarely sings by 
day, and those kept in cages are often covered with a cloth to make them 
sing. It is very shy; professed naturalists know but little of its habits. 
Mudie says : "I watched them carefully for more than five years in a 
place where they were very abundant, and at the end of that time I was 
about as wise as at the beginning." 

The nightingale begins to sing in England in April. Its music is 
loudest and most constant when it first comes, for then the males are 
singing in earnest rivalry to attract their mates. When the female has once made her 
choice, her male becomes very much attached to her, and, if she should be captured, pines 
and dies. But his song grows less, and, after the eggs are hatched, ceases altogether. 
The bird-catchers try to secure the singers during the first week, for then by proper care 
they may be made to sing a long time. 

The listener is astonished to hear a volume of sounds so rich and full proceed from 
the throat of so small a bird. Besides its strength, its delightful variety and exquisite 
harmony make its music most admirable. Sometimes it dwells on a few mournful notes, 
which begin softly, swell to its full power, and then die away. Sometimes it gives in 
quick succession a series of sharp, ringing tones, which it ends with the ascending notes of 
a rising chord. The birds which are free do not sing after midsummer, while those which 
are caged sing until November, or even until February. The young birds need to be 
under training of some older one, and will often sur^iass their teacher; few become 
first-rate. 

The nest of the nightingale is not built in the branches, or in a hole, or hanging in the 
air, or quite on the ground, but is very near it. It is not easily found unless the 
movements of the bird betray it. The materials are straw, grass, little sticks, dried 
leaves, all jumbled together with so little art that one can hardly see it when it is right 
before him. If the same materials were seen anywhere else, they would seem to have 
been blown together by the wind, and stopped just there by a fork in the branches. There 
are four or five smooth olive-brown eggs. The bird is about six inches long, and weighs 
three-quarters of an ounce. Its colors are dark-brown above and grayish-white below. 

Izaak Walton says: "But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes 
such sweet, loud music out of the little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind 
think that miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps 
securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural 
rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above 
earth, and say, ' Lord, what music hast Thou provided for Thy saints in heaven, when Thou 
affordest such music on earth ! ' " 

S. H. Peabody. 



154 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



NATURE. 



Im&IE bubbling brook doth leap when I come bj', 

^K Because mj- feet liiid measure ^\•ith its call ; 
^ The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
T For I am known to them, both great and small. 
The flower that on the lonely hiUside grows 
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; 
And mauT a tree and bush my wanderings knows, 



And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; 

For he who with his Maker walks aright, 

Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight. 

Each object wear the dress that then it wore; 

And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 

Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 

Jones Very. 




"A grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge." 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 






&' 



XD hark ! the Xightingale begins its song, — 
•Most musical, most melancholy'" birdi 
'V- A melancholy bird? oh. idle thought! 
"*?' In Xature there is nothing melancholy. 

"Tis the merrv Xightingale, 

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 



With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
As he -were fearful that an April night 
Would be too shoi-t for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul 
Of all its music ! 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



155 



And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
Thin grass and kingcups, grow within the paths 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales; and far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song. 
With skirmishes and capricious passagings, 
And murmurs musical and swift — jug, jug — 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all. 
Stirring the air M'ith such a harmony, 
That, should you close your eyes, j'^ou might almost 



Forget it was not daj'! On moonlight bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and 

full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

And oft a moment's space. 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! 

Samuel Taylor Colekidge. 




' Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm." 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 



||HESE, as they change. Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love, 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; 
And every sense and every heart is joj'. 
Then comes thy gloiy in the summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year. 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales, 
Thy bounty shines in autumn imconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms 



Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roUed. 
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, 




Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 



156 



THE GOLDEIiT TEEASUHY. 



Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, iu these appear! a simple train. 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beuelicence combined ; 
Shade, imperceived, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole; 



In adoration join; and, ardent, raise 

One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales. 

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes; 

O, talk of him in solitary glooms! 

Whei'e, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 




" By brooks and ^oves, in hollow whispering gales." 



lliat, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the nnghtj' hand. 
That, ever busj', wheels the silent sphei-es; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; 



And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. 

Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Heaven 

The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, j-e trembling rills; 

And let me catch it as I nnise along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; 




' Thv bountv' shines in Autumn uncontined. 



Flings from the sun direct the flaming day: 
Feeds every creature; hurls the temxjest forth; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life, 

Xature, attend! join, every living soul. 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 



Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 

Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll j'our incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 



GLIMPSES OF NATUEE. 



157 



In luingied clouds to him, whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath pertuiues you, aud whose pencil paints. 
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to him ; 
Breathe yoiu- still song into the reaper's heart. 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 



While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossj^ rocks, 
Retain the sound : the broad responsive low. 
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns; 
Aud his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 




" With clouds and storms, 
Around thee throAvn, tempest o'er tempest rolled." 



Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike. 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyi-e. 
Great source of day ! best image here below 



Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day. 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. 




" Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound." 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide. 

From world to world, the vital ocean round. 

On nature write with everj^ beam his praise. 

The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world. 



Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. 
Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, 
Assembled men, to the deep organ join 



158 



THE GOLDEX TREASLTHY. 



The long resoimding voice, oft-breaking, clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
And, as each mingling Hanie increases each, 
In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove. 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 



Rivers unkno\^n to song, where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where he vital spreads there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come. 
And \\ing my mystic flight to future worlds. 




" Since God is ever j: 
In the void waste as 



Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll! 
For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring autinnn gleams, 
Or winter rises in the blackening east, 
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. 



)rusent, ever telt, 
in the cit)' full." 

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 

Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 

"Where universal love not smiles around, 

Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their sons; 

From seeming evil still educing good. 

And better thence again, and better still. 

In infinite progression. But I lose 

Myself in him. in light ineffable! 

Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 

James Thomson. 



H^ss-; 



NIGHT. 




heaven and earth are still — though not in 
sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep. 
All heaven and earth are still ; from the high host 
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
"Where not avbeam, nor air, nor leaf is lost 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that -which is of all Creator and defense. 



^^d this is in the night — most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again "tis black — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Lord Byron. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



159 




' How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea." 



THE CLOUD. 



BRING- fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the sea and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for tlie leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
'Pile sweet birds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. . 



I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of uiy skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits, 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and ho^^'ls at fits ; 
Over eai'th and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 



IGO 



THE GOLDEX TEEASLTEY. 



Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while hask in heaven's blue smile, 

"Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

^Yhen the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment maj' sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset maj" breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve maj" fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airj- nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

"\Miom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the inidnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Wliich only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of ray tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 



AVhen I widen the rent in my vsind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Ai"e each paved with the moon and these. 

1 bind the sun's throne ^vith a burning zone, 

^\jid the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, tu-e, and snow, 
"VVTien the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 

Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-lii-e above its soft colors wove, 

"While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the skj-; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with then- convex, 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air. 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




MOEXIXG. 

we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense 
blue of the sk}^ began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to 
rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bi'ight 
constellations of the west and north remained unchansred. Steadilv the wondrous 
transfiguration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted the 
scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The 
blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes ; the 
east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole 
celestial concave was filled with the inflowino: tides of the mornino- liofht, which came 
pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the 
Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy 
tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting 
gates of the morning were thrown M'ide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too 
severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 

Edward Eatirett. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



161 



THE SEA. 



fHEEE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes 
By the deep sea, and music in its i-oar : 
I love not man the less, hut nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may he, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 



His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
Spurning- him from thy hosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or hay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 




" Dark-heaving; boundless, endless and sublime." 



Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks ai-e all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
Without a grave, unknelled, uucofflned and unknown. 



The ainnaments ^^■hich thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monai'chs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war — 
These are thj' toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, ^^'hich mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 



162 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



Thy shores are empires, changed iu all save thee ; 
Assyria, Greece, Koine, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free 
And many a tj'raut since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves" play, 
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless and sublime, 



The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goes forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

Lord Byron. 



o>»^^«=^c 




' Upon the roses it would feed." 



THE NYMPH'S DESCRIPTION OF HER FAWN. 



^I'flTH sweetest milk and sugar, first 
I it at mine own fingers nursed; 
And as it grew, so every day 
It waxed more white and sweet than they. 
It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 
I blushed to see its foot more soft 
And white, shall I say? than mj- hand — 
Than anv ladv's in the land. 



It was a wondrous thing how fleet 
'Twas on those little silver feet. 
With what a pretty skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race : 
And when "t had left me far away, 
'Twonld stay, and run again, and stay; 
For it was nimbler much than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 



GLIMPSES OF XATURE. 



1G3 



I have .a garden of my own. 

But so with roses overgrown, 

And lilies, that you would it guess 

To be a little wilderness ; 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It loved only to he there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise 

Find it, although before mine eyes ; 

For in the flaxen lilies' shade. 

It like a bank of lilies laid. 



Upon the roses it would feed. 
Until its lips e"en seemed to bleed; 
And then to me 'twould boldly trip. 
And print those roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to till. 
And its pure virgin lips to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 

Andrew Marvel. 



^^5 




THE BOBOLIKE. 



HE happiest bird of our spring, and one that rivals the European lark 
in our estimation, is the bob-o-lincoln, or bobolink, as he is commonly 
called. He arrives when nature is in all her freshness and fragrance : 
" the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time 
of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in 
the land." 

The trees are now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdure: the 
woods are gay with the clustered flowers of the laurel ; the air is 
perfumed by the sweet-brier and wild rose; the meadow is enameled 
with clover-blossoms; while the young apple, the peach, and the plum 
begin to swell, and the cherry to glow, among the green leaves. 
This is the chosen season of revelry of the bobolink. He comes amidst the pomp 
and fragrance of the season ; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and 
sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows; 
and is most in song when the clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a 
tree or on some long flaunting weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours 
forth a succession of i*ich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon another like the outpouring 
melody of the skylark, and possessing the same rapturous character. Sometimes he 
pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as he gets upon the wing, and flutters 
tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes 
he is in pursuit of his mate ; always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody ; 
and always with the same appearance of intoxication and delight. 

Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the bobolink was the envy of my 
boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of 
the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural feelings throbbed in every 
bosom. Had I been then more versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the 
words of Logan to the cuckoo: — 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note, no winter in thy year. 
Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee; we'd make, on joj'ful wing, 
Our annual visit round the globe, companions of the spring! 



164 THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 

Further observation and experience have given me a different idea of this little 
feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart for the benefit of school-boy readers, 
who may regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. 
I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of 
his career, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and 
was a bird of music and song and taste and sensibility and refinement. While this lasted 
he was sacred from injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and 
the merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the difference. 
As the year advances, as the clover blossoms disappear, and the spring fades away 
into summer, he gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical suit of 
black, assumes a russet, dusty garb, and sinks to the gross enjoyments of common vulgar 
birds. His notes no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuflfing himself with the seed of the 
tall weeds on which he lately swung and chanted so melodiously. He has become a 
gormand. With him now there is nothing like the " joys of the table." In a little while 
he grows tired of plain, homely fare, and is off on a gastronomical tour in quest of 
foreign luxuries. We next hear of him with myriads of his kind, banqueting among 
the reeds of the Delaware, and grown corpulent with good feeding. He has changed his 
name in traveling. Bob-o-lincoln no more — he is the reed-bird now, the much-sought 
tidbit of Penns^dvania epicures, the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan ! Wherever he 
goes, pop ! pop ! joop ! every rusty firelock in the country is blazing away. He sees 
his companions falling by thousands and tens of thousands around him. Does he 
take warning and reform? — Alas, not he! Incorrigible epicure! again he wings his 
flight. The rice-swamps of the south invite him. He gorges himself almost to 
bursting; he can scarcely fly for corpulency. He has once more changed his name, 
and is now the famous rice-bird of the Carolinas. Last stage of his career — behold 
him spitted with dozens of his corpulent companions, and served up, a vaunted dish 
on the table of some southern epicure. 

Such is the story of the bobolink — once spiritual, musical, admired, the joy of 
the meadows, and the favoi'ite bird of spring; finally a gross little sensualist who 
expiates his sensuality in the kitchen. His stor}^ contains a moral worthy the attention 
of all, warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual pursuits which raised him 
to so high a degree of popularity during the early part of his career, but to eschew all 
tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence which brought this mistaken little 
bird to an untimely end. 

Washington Irving. 



THE RAINBOW. 

|Y heart leaps up when 1 behold So be it when I shall grow old . 

-C5s^- -'^ rainbow in the sky : Or let me die ! 

'W^ „ •.. T. Tx 1 The child is father of the man: 

If So was it when 1113' life began; , ■, ^ , , . , , , 

ii, _ _ And I could ^^■lsh my days to be 

So is it now I am a man ; Bound each to each by natural piety. 

"WiLLiA?,! Wordsworth. 




GLDIFSES OF NATURE. 



165 



THE SHEPHERD. 



gH, gentle Shepherd! thine the lot to tend. 
01 all that teels distress, the most assail'd, 
'^"S^ Feeble, defenceless; lenient he thy care; 

]j But spread around thy tenderest diligence 
In flower}^ spring-time, when the new-dropp"d lamb. 
Tottering ^\•ith weakness by his mother's side. 
Feels the fresh world about him; and each thorn, 
Hillock, or f m-row, trips his feeble feet : 



Em-us oft flings his hail; the tardy fields. 
Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam 
O'er her weak twins with emptj- udder mourns. 
Or fails to guard, when the bold bu-d of prey 
Alights, and hops in many tm'ns around. 
And tires her also turning : to her aid 
Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms 
Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft, 




" The weakest in thine nrms 

Gently convey to the warm cote." 



Ob! guard liis meek, sweet innocence from all 
Th' numerous ills that rush around his life ; 
?rlark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone. 
Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain ; 
Observe the lurking crows ; beware the brake — 
There the sly fox the careless minute waits ; 
Xor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth, nor skj' : 
Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide ; 
11 



Between the lark's note and the nightingale's. 
His hungry bleating still with tepid milk; — 
In this soft office may thj- children join. 
And charitable actions learn in sport. 
Nor yield him to himself ere vernal airs 
Sprinkle the little croft with daisy flowers; 
Nor j'et forget him; life has rising ills. 

John Dver. 



1(16 



THE GOLDEX TEEAStT.Y. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MLXH "WITH US. 



And 



HE world is too much with us : late and soon. 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 

Little we see in Xature that is ours ; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The ■\\-inds that will be howling at all hours, 
are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 



For this, for everjthing, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God I I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworu ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 



-^^•h;sm- 




" Sweet voices in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that havelon^ been mute." 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



HAT wak'st thou. Spring? — Sweet voices in the 

woods. 

- And reed-like echoes, that have long been 
•t mute ; 

Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute. 
MTiose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee. 
Even as our hearts mav be. 



And the leaves greet, Spring! —the joyous leaves, 
Whose ti-emblings gladden many a copse and 
glade, 
AMiere each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
AATien thy south wind hath pierced the whisperj' 
shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



167 



Aud the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakeuar! thau has burst their sleep ! 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, aud in the forests deep, 

Whei'e sudden sparkles aud blue gleams beti-ay 
Theu- windings to the day. 

Aud flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers! 

Thou fi"oui the dust hast set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And penciling the wood-anemone : 
Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with inute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring — 
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 

Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing. 
Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : 
What wak"st thou in the heart? 

Too much, O, there too much! — we know not well 
"Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, 
Wliat fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 
cell. 
Gush for the faces we no more may see. 
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door. 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring, 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why reviv'st thou these? 



Vain longings for the dead! — why come they back 
With thy j'oung birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms? 




" Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody." 

O, is it not that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? 
Yes, gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air. 
Breathed by our loved ones there. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



sS— g^ 



VARYING- IMPRESSIONS FROM NATURE. 



pp CANNOT paint 

1^ What then I was. The sounding cataract 

^f Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 

'I'he mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling and a love, 
That had no heed of a remoter charm 
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 
UnboiTowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
Aud all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed : for such loss, I would believe. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity. 
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 



A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear — both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

William Wokuswobth. 



IGS 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 



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GLIMPSES OF XATURE. 



1(39 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE YALE OF CHAMOUNI. 



^^pAST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
i^^ In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 
'W^ On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! 
J4. The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently! Around thee and above. 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy ciystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternitj'! 



Into the mighty vision passing — there. 

As in her natui'al form, swelled vast to Heaven! 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears 
Mute thanks and seci-et ecstacy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness aU the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 




' On thy h.ild, awful head, O sovran Blanc!" 



dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 



Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald: wake, O wake and utter praise! 
Who sank thj'' sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual sti-eams? 
And j'ou, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called j'ou forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 



170 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



Forever shattered and the same forever? 

"VVho gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy. 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 

And who commanded (and the silence came). 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, — 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon? ^Mio bade the sun 
Clothe j'ou with rainbows? ^Tho, Avith living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — 
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 
God ! Sing, ye meadow sti-eams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they, too. have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 



Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and flU the hills with praise ! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-poiutingpeaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That as I raise mj" head, a while bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest. like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



TO THE DAISY. 



pITH little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Daisj'! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homel}- face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

"WTiich love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes. 

Loose tj'pes of things through all degrees. 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humor of the game, 

"VVhile I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of love's coui't, 

In thy simplicit}' the sport 

Of all temptations; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A stan-eling in a scanty vest; 
Are all. as seems to suit thee best, 

Tliy appellations. 



o>o<^^~<o 



A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy. 
That thought comes next. — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish.^and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold. 
That spreads itself, some faeiy bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar, — 
And then thou art a prettj- star ; 
Not quite so fair as manj' are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, -with glittering crest. 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
Maj' peace come never to his nest, 

^Yho shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Flower! for bj' that name at last. 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet, silent creature ! 
lliat breath'st with me in sun and air 
Do thon. as thou art wont, repair 
My heiirt with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

AVilliam AVordsworth. 



What shall we say of flowers — those flaming banners of the vegetable world, which 
march in such various and splendid triumph before the coming of its fruits ? 



GLI5IPSES OF NATURE. 



171 



?HE night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 



*!s A little while a little space made bright. 
f'A Dark was the night, and like an iron bar 
J4 Lay heavy on the land : till o"er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a light 
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height 
Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull Hew 
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East 
Where slo\\ly the rose gathered and increased. 
Tt was as on the opening of a door 



By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold, 
(Its Hame yet hidden by the garment's fold) — 
The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean turned 
Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — 
Sharper against the sky the long sea line ; 
The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine. 
Though white the outer branches of the tree. 
From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 
Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 
A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. 

Richard Watson Gildek. 




" The Owl that, watching in the barn, 
Sees the mouse creeping in the corn." 

THE BARN OATL. 

SEtl^^IIILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, 
«^;Bst Thi'ough every mouldering crevice falls, 
JL Tipping with white his powdery plume, 






As shades or shifts the changing gloom; 
The Owl that, watching in the barn. 



Sees the mouse creeping in the corn, 
Sits still, and shuts his round blue ej^es 
As if he slept. — until he spies 
The little beast within his stretch. — 
Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! 

Samuel Bi^tler. 



172 



'J'HE GOLDEX TEEASURY 




GLLVIPSES OF jSTATUEE. 



173 



BEFORE THE RAIN. 



^E knew it would rain, for ail the morn 
^JkS a sph-it on slender ropes of mist 
" • ^My^^ Was lowering its golden buckets down 
jY Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers. 



Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 
To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves ; the umber grain 

Shrunk in the wind; and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. 

Thomas Bailey Aldkicu. 




AFTER THE RAIN. 



;jHE rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
And on the church's dizzy vane 
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 

From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely caiTen, gray and high, 



A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an ej^e : 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 

And in the belfry sits a dove 

With purple ripples on her neck. 

Thomas Bailey Alukich. 



NIG-HT. 



#i MAJESTIC Night! 

Xature"s great ancestor! day's eldei'-born, 
And fated to survive the transient sun! 
By mortals and immortals seen ^\ith awe! 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's 
' loom 

Wrought through varieties of shape and shade. 



In ample folds of drapery divine. 

Thy flowing mantle form; and heaven throughout 

Voluniinouslj' pour thy pompous train. 

Thy gloomy grandeurs (Xature's most august, 

Inspiring aspect!) claim a grateful verse; 

And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 

Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 

Edward Young. 



174 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



SUMMER. 



■^^I^ROUlSnD this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Punidise. 

Oh, softly on yon banks of haze 
Her rosy face the summer lays ; 
Becalmed along the azure sky 
The argosies of cloudland lie. 
Whose shores with many a shining rift 
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 



I watch the mowers as they go 

Through the tall grass, a \\hite-sleeved row, 
With even sti'oke their scythes they swing. 
In tune their meny whetstones ring. 

Behind, the nimble j'oungsters run, 

And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill. 




" I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 
Just where the field and forest meet." 



Through all the long midsummer day 

ITie meadoA\' sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltei-ed seat. 

Just where the field and forest meet, — 
Where grow the pine-trees, tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks, austere and grand, 

And fringj' roots and pebbles fret 

The ripples of the rivulet. 



And bright, when siuiimer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 
Come to the pleasant woods with me; 
Quickly befoi'e nu> runs the quail. 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 



GLDIPSES OF XATITIE. 



175 




" Quickly before me nins the quail. 
Her chickens skulk behind Ihc rail." 



And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
'JTlie brooklet rings its tinkling bells. 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 

The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 
And chatters in his leafy house; 

The oriole flashes by; and look — 

Into the mirror of the brook, 



AVhere the vain bluebii'd trims his coat; 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly. 

The down of peace descends on me. 

Oh. this is peace I I have no need 

Of friend to talk, or book to read ; 
A dear companion here abides. 
Close to ray thrilling heart he hides; 

The holy silence is his voice : 

I lie, and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



-MS— Ss 



DAY BREAKING. 

|EE, the dapple-grey coursers of the morn 

% Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, 



And chase it through the sk^'. 



John Marston. 



I7n 



THE GOLDEX TKEASLTIY. 




THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS. 



GLENIPSES OF XATUEE. 



17' 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 



3^|S it fell upon a day 

^ In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 

lYees did grow, and i:)lants did spring; 

Everything did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn; 

And there sung the dolefuFst ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; 

Teru, tei-u, by-and-by; 

That, to hear her so complain. 

Scarce I could from tears refrain; 

For her griefs, so livelj' shown. 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; 

None takes pity on thj' pain ; 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless bears, thej' will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lajiped in lead ; 

All thy fellow-birds do sing, 

Careless of thy sorrowing! 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. 



Thou and 1 were both beguiled, 

Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 

Faithful friends are hard to tind. 

Everj^ man will be thy friend 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; 

But, if stores of crowns be scant, 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal. 

Bountiful they will him call ; 

And, with such-like flattering, 

"Pity but he were a king." 

If he be addict to vice, 

Quickljr him they will entice ; 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown : 

They that fawned on him before, 

Use his company no more. 

He that is thj' friend indeed. 

He will help thee in thy need ; 

If thou sorrow, he will A\eep, 

If thou wake, he cannot sleep. 

Thus, of every grief in heart. 

He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

ElCHAKD BARNFIELU. 



^ 



fP^ 



THE MOUIsTT OF THE HOLY CEOSS. 



rHIS wonderful peak of the Eocky Mountain Range is one of the most noted 
and remarkable mountains in the world. It is among the highest in Colorado, 

•one of the thirty-three peaks whose summits are 
A tremendous chasm cleaves it on 



£^.43 being; 14,17G feet high- 
it 14,000 feet and upv/ard above the sea. 

the eastern side nearly to the top, and right across this, perhaps three-fourths 
of the way up, is another, and these, filled with snow old as creation, form a 
perfect and most beautiful cross. It is one of the marked objects visible from 
Gray's and Pike's Peaks, and from a wide extent of country west of the dividing 
range of the continent. 



There is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, and in the 
mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks and its bottoms are of cold water, while its 
current is of warm. The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain, and its mouth is the Arctic Seas. 
It is the Gulf Stream. There is in the world no other such majestic flow of waters. Its 
current is more rapid than the Mississippi or the Amazon, and its volume more than a 
thousand times greater. 



178 



THE GOLDE]!^ TKEASUEY. 



THE HEATH-COCK. 



_|OOD-MOREOW to thy sable beak 
^ Aud glossy plumage dark aud sleek, 
^M Thy crimson moon and azure eye, 
4 Cock of the heath, so wildly shy : 



The rarest things, with wayward will, 
Beneath the covert hide them still; 
The rarest things to break of daj' 
Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 




' Cock of the heath, so wildly shy." 



I see thee slyly cowering through 
That wiry web of silverj' dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air. 
Like casements of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in j'ouder tower, 
"WTio, peeping from her early bower, 
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile. 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 



A fleeting moment of delight 
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight; 
As short, I ween, the time will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day. 
The chirping herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring. — 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baillie. 



-^Sd^ 



There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: — and there 

is pansies, 



that's for thoughts. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUEE. 



179 



A JUNE DAY. 



fHO has not dreara'd a world of bliss, 
On a bright sunny noon like this, 
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze. 
With comrade of his boyish days. 
While all around them seem'd to be 
Just as in joyous infancy? 



Through the tall fox-glove's crimson bloom, 
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom. 
Love you not, then, to list and hear 
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near. 
Pouring an orange-scented tide 
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? 






** Who has not loved, at sucli an liour, 
Upon that heath, in birchen bower." 



Who has not loved, at such an hour. 
Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood, 
Its wild and sunny solitude? 
While o'er the waste of purple ling 
You mark a sultry glimmering ; 
Silence herself there seems to sleep, 
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep, 
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep, 



To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill, 
Hovering above you high and still? 
The twittering of the bird that dwells 
Amongst the heath's delicious bells? 
■Wliile round your bed, o'er fern and blade, 
Insects in green and gold aiTay'd, 
The sun's gay tribes, have lightly stray'd ; 
And sweeter sound their humming wings 
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
William Howitt. 



180 



THE GOLDEN TEEASOIY. 



THE SKT-LARK. 



^LRD of the wilderness. 
^^ Blithesome aud ciunherless, 

'fV^ Sweet he thy matin o"er moorland and leal 
J4 Emhlem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay and loud. 

Far in the downy cloud 
Love gives it energj", love gave it birth. 

"Where, on thy dewy wing. 

Where art thou journej'ing? 
'Hiy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 



O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

0"er moor and mountain green, 
O'er the red streanaer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms. 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert -svith thee I 

James Hogg. 




That low plaint oft and oft repeatinsf 



To the coy mate that needs so much entreating." 



TO THE TURTLE-DOYE. 



|EEP in the wood, thy voice I list, and love 

Thy soft complaining song, thy tender cooing; 
O what a winning way thou hast of wooing I 
Gentlest of all thy race — sweet Turtle-dove ! 
ITiine is a note that doth not pass away. 
Like the light music of a summer's day : 
The merle may trill his richest song in vain — 



Scarce do we say. ''List! for he pipes again;"' 
But thou ! that low plaint oft and oft repeating 
To the coy mate that needs so nuich entreating, 
Fillest the woods with a discursive song 
Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long; 
Husliing the voice of mirth, and stajing folly 
And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy. 

D. CONAVAV. 



GLLMFiSES OF NATUEE. 



181 



THE RAINBOW. 



^;1IUS all day long the full distended clouds 
Indulge their genial stores, and well-showered 
'^if • ■- earth 

J«i Is deep enriched with vegetable life ; 
Till, ill the western sky, the downward sua 
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 
The illumined mountain through the forest streams. 



Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow 

Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds. 

In fair proportion running from the red 

To where the violet fades into the sky. 

Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds 

Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; 

And to the sage-instracted eye unfold 

The various twine of light, by thee disclosed. 

From the white mingling maze. JSTot so the boy ; 




" The grand ethereal bow 

Shoots up immense." 



Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist. 

Far smoking o'er the interminable plain. 

In twinkling m>Tiads lights the dewy gems. 

Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around. 

Full swell the woods ; their every music wakes. 

Mixed in wild concert with the -wai-bling brooks 

Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills. 

The hollow lows responsive from the vales, 

HHience blending all the sweetened zephyr springs. 

i^Ieantinie, refracted from yon eastern cloud. 



He wondering views the bright enchantment bend. 
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs 
To catch the falling gloiy ; but amazed 
Beholds the amusive arch before him fly. 
Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds. 
A softened shade, and saturated earth 
Awaits the morning beam, to give to light. 
Raised through ten thousand different plastic tti1)es 
The balmy treasures of the former day. 

J.\:mf.s Thomson. 



KS aromatic plants bestow 

" Xo spicy fragrance while they grow; 
But, crushed or trodden to the ground. 
Hiffuso their balmy sweets around. 
12 



ip KNOW a bank ^\•here the wild thyme blows, 
a^ "Wliere ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; 
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
AVith sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. 



182 



THE GOLDEIsT TEEASUEY. 



THE SPRING IS HERE. 



KlIE Spring is here — the delicate-footed Ma}', 
^ With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers ; 
And ^\•ith it comes a thirst to be away, 

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours — 
A feeling that is like a sense of wings, 
Restless to soar above these perishing things. 

We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 

And nature, that is beautiful and dumb. 
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. 

Yet even there a restless thought will steal, 

To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 



Strange that the audible stillness of the noon. 

The waters tripping A\ith their silver feet, 
The turning to the light of leaves in June, 

And the light whisper as their edges meet — 
Sti-ange that they fiil not, with their tranquil tone. 
The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 

There's no contentment, in a world like this. 
Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream : 

Bird-like, the prisoned soul A\-ill lift its eye 

And sing, till it is hooded from the sky. 

Xathaniel Pakker Willis. 



THE FIRST VIOLET. 




Batted with vellow grass the fields lie bare, 
Wind-swept and bleak, and desolate with 



Through mistj' distances, the leafless trees 
Stretch gaunt, bare arms, and writhe as if iti 
pain; 
And, save the fitful sobbing of the wind. 

No sound, no life in all this lonesome waste. 
Oh hopeless day, that ever thou wert born ! 
Pass on! pass on! and to thine ending haste. 

Pass on! — for never in the count of Time 

Came day to me more full of evil things; 
Old memories of loss, of death and pain. 

Start from their sleep and wound with freshest 
stings ; 
And here I stand alone, dear God, alone, 

A pitiless grey skj' above my head ; 
Below . . . ah! what is this? Thou fairest flower, 

"Wbat dost thou here upon this death-cold bed? 

Blue, bright as hope, or rifts in summer clouds. 

Fresh, pure, unsmirched by stain of rain or clay. 
Thou dream of radiant suns, of soft spring skies, 

AVTiat dost thou here, mocked by this dismal day? 
But j'et methiuks a light boi-u of thy grace 

Pierces the gloom, as morning pierces night; 
Sweet messenger, hast thou some sign for nte? 

Some blest Evangel, if I read aright? 



The waking pulse of Nature thi-obs in thee. 

And through the ice-bound mould, so grim and bare, 
Thy tender shoots have pierced, thj^ blooms unfold. 

Amidst this sullen waste the one thing fair ; 
So delicate, so frail, and yet so strong 

To bear the gracious message of the spring; 
Herald of life which underlies all death. 

We dimly read the I'iddle that you bring. 

The violet droops within this bitter blast 

(All first great ti'uths the martyi-'s crown must 
bear). 
Blow wind, fall snow, we know no shroud can still 

The life which stirs beneath this frozen air. 
Dear God! I read upon this petaled page 

Thy changeless record in the changeful hours; 
Day follows night — Thou turncst blooms to dust. 

But from that tear-wet dust Thou bringest flowers. 

Fairer and i)urer for the vanished night — 

The long, lone wintry night when hope was o'er. 
And love stood shivering by some open grave, 

.Vnd wrote upon its margin. •• Nevermore; "' 
Blind Love, who could not see beyond the mould 

And watch the new life quicken from decay, 
'^^^l0 conld not trust the Lord who rules the night 

To bring the blossoms of some fresh spring day. 
Marie B. Williams. 



^^ETTER to hunt in fields for health unbought, 
i^? Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. 
The wise for cure on exercise depend; 
God never made his work for man to mend. 



^^PAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, 
"J^i One Avho dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
AMien he called the flowers, so blue and golden. 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 



GLEVIPSES OF NATUEE. 



183 




"We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
To find refreshment in the silent woods.'* 



184 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUKY. 



TO A AVATER-FOAYL. 



JHITHEE. midst falling dew, 

® AMiile glow the heavens with the last steps of 
day, 
!|] Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
■k' Thy solitary way'? 

1 

' Vainly the fowler s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 
Thy figure floats along. 



All day thy wings have fanned. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not. weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end : 
Soon shalt thou And a summer home, and rest. 
And scream among th_y fellows; reeds shall 
bend. 

Soon o'er thv sheltered nest. 




" All day thv \ving;s haNC fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere." 



Seek"st thou the plashy brink 
Of w eedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast - 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering:, but not lost. 



Thou "rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on ray heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given 

And shall not soon depart : 

He who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that 1 must tread alone. 

Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



VIOLETS. 



iELCOME, maids of honor! 
You doe bring 
In the spring. 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many 
Fresh and faire ^ 
Yet you are 

More sweet than anv. 



Y'are the maiden posies. 

And so grac't. 

To be plac't 
"Fore damask roses.. 

Yet though thus i-espected, 

By and by 

Ye doe lie, 
Poore girles! neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 



185 



THE WIND-FLOWER. 



3|H0U lookest up with meek, confiding eye, 

^ Upon tlie clouded smile of April's face, 

Wi Uuharuied though wiuter stands uncertain hy, 
* Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. 
Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith arrayed, 
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king; 
Such fate was his whom men to death betrayed. 



As thine who hear'st the timid voice of spring, 

While other flowers still hide them from her call, 

Along the river's brink and meadows bare. 

Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, 

And in thy trust with childlike heart would shai'e. 

Overjoyed that in thy early leaves I find, 

A lesson taught by him who loved all human kind. 

--.-»- Jones Very. 




" From under the boughb in the '^now clad wood 
The merle and the mavis are peepingf." 



. CHRISTMAS 

^|EOM under the boughs in the snow-clad wood 
The merle and the mavis are peeping. 
Alike secure from the wind and the flood, 
Yet a silent Christmas keeping. 
Still happy are they. 
And their looks are gay. 
And they frisk it from bough to bough ; 
Since berries bright red 
Hang over their head, 
A right goodly feast, I trow. 

There, under the boughs, in their wintiy dress, 

Ilaps many a tender greeting ; 
Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress 
Hath told the delight of meeting. 

Though winter hath come 
To his woodland home, 



IN THE WOODS. 

There is mirth with old Christmas cheer. 
For 'ueath the light snow 
Is the fruit-fraught bough. 

And each to his love is near. 

Yes ! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they, 

Those children of song together, — 
As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 
"Mid the snows and the A\'inti\v weather. 
For they dream of spring. 
And the songs they'll sing. 
When the flowers bloom again in the mead; 
And mindful are they 
Of those blossoms gay. 
Which have brought them to-day 
Such help in their time of need ! 

Harrison Weir. 



186 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 




" The tawnv Eagfle seats his callow brood 

Hiu-h on the cliffTand feasts his young with hlood." 



THE EAGLE. 



llP^HE tawny Eagle seats his callow brood 
w!^ High on the cliff, and feasts his yoniii): \\ith 
^ blood: 

I On Snowdou"s rocks, or Orkney's wide domain. 

1 Whose beetling cliffs o"erhang the western 
main. 
The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms. 

Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms; 
Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight. 

And holds his sounding pinions poised for High; ; 



With cruel eye premeditates the war. 

And marks his destined victim from afar: 
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, 
His pinions like the rush of waters sound : 
The fairest of the fold he bears away. 
And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; 
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore. 
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUBE. 



18' 



A RAM REFLECTED IN THE WATER. 



ippORTH we went. 

^^ And down the vale, along the sti-earalet's edge, 
'•^~ Pursued our way, a broken company, 
? Mute or conversing, singly or in pairs. 

Thus having reached a bridge that overarch 'd 
The hasty rivulet, where it lay becalm'd 



On the green turf, with his imperial front 
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb. 
The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 
Beneath him, show'd his shadowy counterpart. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky. 
And each seem"d centre of his own fair world; 





" A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Anotlier and the same!" 



In a deep pool, by happj^ chance we saw 
A twofold image : on a grassy bank 
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same 1 Most beautiful. 



Antipodes unconscious of each other. 

Yet. in partition, with their several spheres, 

Blended in perfect stiUuess, to our sight ! 

William Wordsworth. 



il^II, there is not lost 

*^W One of earth's charins ; upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And .yet shall lie. 



^^WEET is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
y^i AVith charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
■\Alien first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glistering \\ith dew. 



188 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE SQUIRREL-HUNT. 



IHEN, as a nimble squirrel from the wood, 

Ranging the hedges for his fllbert-food, 

"^^ Sits partly on a bough his browns nuts cracking, 
And from the shell the sweet white kernell 
taking. 
Till (with their crookes and bags) a sort of boyes 



The boj-es runne dabling through thicke and thin : 
One tears his hose, another breakes his shin; 
This, torn and tatter"d, hath with mm^h adoe 
Got by the bryers : and that hath lost his shoe : 
This drops his hat — that headlong-falls for haste; 
Another cryes behinde for being last: 




'' He is forced to leave a nut nig'h broke. 
And for his life leape to a neighbour oake " 



(To share with him) come with so great a noyse, 
That he is forced to leave a nut nigh broke. 
And for his life leape to a neighbour oake ; 
Thence to a beeche, thence to a row of ashes ; 
Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes, 



With stickes and stones, and many a sounding halloo, 
ITie little foole. with no small sport, they follow; 
Whilst he from tree to tree, from spray to spray. 
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray. 

William Browt^e. 



It is computed that the swallow flies upward of sixty, the crow twenty-five, and 
the hawk forty-two miles an hour. The flight of the English eagle is six thousand 
feet in a minute. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



189 



SUMMER WOODS. 

jjl LOVE at eventide to walk alone, While in the juicy corn the hidden quail 

H Down narrow lanes, o'erhung with dewy thorn, Cries, '"Wet my foot;" and, hid as thoughts un- 

P Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail, born, 

i Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail 




" I love ;it cNcntidcto walk alone." 

I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown. Utters, " Craik ! — craik ! " like voices under ground. 

Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air; Right glad to meet the evening dewj' veil. 

Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone, And see the light fade into gloom around. 

In vain, for flowers thatbloom'd but newly there; John Clake. 



«?^ 



^pj^OTHING is better able to gratify the inherent passion of novelty than a 
garden ; for Nature is always renewing her variegated appearance. She is 
infinite in her productions, and the life of man may come to its close 

before he has seen half the pictures which she is able to display. 



^W^g 



190 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



ON A GOLDFINCH. 



fllJpBrME was when I was free as air. 
^^ The thistle's downy seed my fare. 
My drink the morning dew ; 
I perch'd at will on every spraj% 
My form genteel, my plumage gay. 
Mv strains forever new. 



For caught and caged, and starved to death. 
In dying sighs my little breath 
Soon pass"d the wiry grate. 

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
And thanks for this effectual close 
And cure of every ill I 




L till Lc a downy "ieed mv fare " 



But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And form genteel, were all in vain. 
And of a transient date ; 



More crueltj' could none express; 

And I. if you had shown me less, 

Had been j-our prisoner still. 

WlI.LIAl' C'OWPER. 



2^5 



CHANGES I:N" XATUEE. 



IKIIrHREE astonishing; chan2:es i)resent themselves to our view in the kinojdom of 

^ Nature. The first is — when a small seed dies in the lap of earth, and 

rises again in the verdant and flowery splendor of a j'outhful tree. The 

4 next is — when, under a warm and feathery covering, life develops itself in 

T an effor, and a winjred bird breaks sinfring throuofh the shell. The third 

is — when a creeping caterpillar is transformed into a butterfly, which, with glittei'- 

ing and delicate wing, rocks itself upon the lovely flowers. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



191 



MORNING BONG. 



sP ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour, 
i^P Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ; 
'■" O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, 
And the wild kid sports merrily. 
The sun is bright, the skj^ is clear , 
Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 

Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair. 
And rouse thee in the breezy air! 
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 
Is dancing in the sunny beam. 



Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : 
Leave thy soft couch and haste away ! 

Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone. 
The reapers to the fields are gone. 
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay: 
Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away! 

Joanna Baillie. 



-3^.5e^ 




" Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush.'* 



■ oCfe 



THE SQUIRREL. 



JRAWX from his refuge in some lonely elm. 
W That age or injury has hollow'd deep, 
~i^ Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, 
li He has outslept the winter, ventures forth. 
To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun. 
The Squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play; 



He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, 
Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his 

brush. 
And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, 
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, 
And anger insignificantly fierce. 

William Cowper. 



192 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 

THE lYY GREEN. 



^H, a dainty plant is the I\'j' Green, 
That ereepeth o'er ruins old I 
Of right choice food are his meals. I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. 
To pleasm-e his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. 

And a staunch old heart has he : 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-ti-ee ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves, 



As he joyously hugs and crawleth around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

^\Tiole ages have fled, and their works decayed. 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old I\y shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 

.Shall fatten upon the past; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been. 
A rare old plant is the Iv.v Green. 

Charles Dickens. 



-^SHS=^ 




' How true slie \varp'd the moss to form her nest, 
And model'dit within with wool and clay." 



THE THRUSH'S NEST. 



ITHIX a thick and spreading hawthorn bush. 
That overhung a mole-hill large and round. 
t{P^ I heard, from morn to morn, a merry Tlirush 
Sing h.vmns to sunrise, while I drank the 
sound 
"With joy: — and often, an intruding guest, 

I watch'd her secret toils, from day to day. — 
How time she warp'd the moss to form her nest, 
And model'd it within with wool and clav. 



And by-and-by. like heath-bells gilt with dew. 

There lay her shining eggs, as bright as 
flowers, 
Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue ; 

And there T witnessed, in the summer hours, 
A brood of Nature's minsti-els chirp and fly. 

Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 

John Ci.are 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



193 




And here he came, pierced by u fatal blov 



THE DYING STAG. 



^OW in a grassy dingle he was laid, 
* With wild wood primroses hefreckled low. 
Over his head the wantoii shadows play'd 
Of a young olive, that her boughs so spread, 
As with her leaves she seem'd to crown his head. 
And here he came, pierced by a fatal blow. 



As in a wood he walk'd, securely feeding; 
And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, 
His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding, 
Bade farewell to the woods that round him wave. 
While tears from drooping flowers bedew his turfy 
grave. 

Giles Fletcher. 



-'-a-~^e.^- 



I^IGHT. 



ij^pIGHT is the astronomer's accepted time ; he goes to his delightful labors when 

g^l^ the busy world goes to its rest. A dark pall spreads over the resorts of active 

/(|i)X jifg. terrestrial objects, hill and valley, and rock and stream, and the abodes of 

«H> men disappear; but the curtain is drawn up which concealed the heavenly hosts. 

Jl There they shine and there they move as they moved and shone to the eyes of 

Newton and Galileo, of Kepler and Copernicus, of Ptolemy and Ilippardius; 

yes, as they moved and shone when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of 

God shouted for joy. All has changed on earth; but the glorious heavens I'emain 

unchanged. The plow passes over the site of mighty cities ; the homes of powerful 

nations are desolate ; the languages they spoke are forgotten : but the stars that 

shone for them are shining for us; the same eclipses run their steady cycle; the 

same equinoxes call out the flowers of spring, and send the husbandman to the 



194 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



harvest; the sun pauses at either tropic as he did when his course began; and 

sun and moon, and planet and satellite, and star and constelJation and galax}', still 

bear witness to the power, the wisdom and the love which placed them in the heavens 

and upholds them there. 

Edward Ea'erett. 



TO SENECA LAKE. 



k'X thy fair bosom, silver lake. 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. 
And round his breast the ripples break. 
As dowTi he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless sti-eani, 
The dipping paddle echoes far, 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
And bright reflects the polar star. 



How sweet, at set of snn. to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shiues the moon. 

A sheet of silver spreads below. 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 




"And round hi? breast tlie ripples break, 
As down he bears before the gale." 



The waves along thy pebbly shore. 
As blows the north wind, heave their foam. 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 



On thy fair bosom, silver lake! 

Oh. I could ever sweep the oar. 
AVhen early birds at morning wake. 

And evening tells us toil is o"er. 

James Gates Percival. 



Nature always springs to the surface, and manages to show what she is. It is vain 
to stop or try to drive her back. She breaks through every obstacle, pushes forward, and 
at last makes for herself a wav. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



195 




" And the call of the pheasant 
Is frequent and pleasant." 



A WOODNOTE. 



|OME ye, come ye, to the green, green wood; 
Loudly the blackbird is singing. 
The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud, 
And the curling fern is springing : 
Here ye may sleep 
In the moss so deep, 
"VVTiile the noon is so warm and so weary, 
And sweetly awake. 
As the sun through the brake 
Bids the fauvette and white-throat sing cheery. 

The quicken is tufted with blossom of snow. 

And is throwing its perfume around it; 
The wryneck replies to the cuckoo's halloo 
For joy that again she has found it; 
The jay's red breast 
Peeps over her nest. 
In the midst of the crab-blossoms blushing; 
And the call of the pheasant 
Is frequent and pleasant, 
When all other calls are hushing. 

William Howitt. 




" Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood ; 
Loudlv the blackbird is singing." 



Nature imitates herself. A o;rain thrown into g-ood ground brings forth fruit ; a 
principle thrown into a good mind brings forth fruit. Evorvthing is created and conducted 
by the same Master ; the root, the branch, the fruits; — the principles, the consequences. 



196 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



LAMBS AT PLAY 



4^ 
^^AY. ye that know, ve who have felt aud seen 

IOj Spring's morning smiles and soul-euliveniug 

fl green. 

^ I Say. did you give the thrilling transport way? 
Did your eye brighten when young lambs at play 
Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, 
Or grazed in merry clusters by your side? 
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, 
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face; 



A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
A startling crowd, impatient of delay. 
Like the fond dove, from feai-ful prison freed. 
Each seems to say. -Come, let us try our speed!" 
Away they scorn-, impetuous, ardent, strong. 
The green turf nembling as they bound along ; 
Adow n the slope, then up the hillock climb. 
Where every molehill is a bank of thjnne : 
There panting stop : yet scarcely can refrain, 








"Did vour eve brighten when youni^ lambs at play 
Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride?" 



K spotless innocence, and infant mirth. 
Excite to praise, or give reflection birth. 
In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, 
"Mid Xatiire's revels, sports that never cloy. 
A few begiu a short but vigorous race. 
And indolence abash'd soon flies the place ; 
llien challenged forth, see thither, one by one. 
From every side assembling playmates run ; 



A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
Or. if a gale with strength unusual blow. 
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow. 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try. 
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 
Ah, fallen rose I sad emblem of their doom: 
Frail as thyself, they iDerish while they bloom ! 

KOBEKT BLOOMFIELD. 



-^f^^ 



HTHE various productions of Nature were not made for us to tread upon, nor 
. J^ only to feed our eves with their ai-ateful variety, or to brins a sweet 



li 



odor to us : but there is a more internal beauty in them for our minds 
to )irey upon, did we but penetrate beyond the surface of these things 
into their hidden properties. 



GLBIPSES OF XATLTRE. 



197 



THE HARE. 



^IS instinct that directs the jealous Ilare 

To choose her soft ahode. With steps reversed 
She forms the doubling maze ; then, ere the 

morn 
Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close 
recess. 



Plot their destruction ; or, perchance in hopes 

Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead 

Or matted grass, wary and close thej' sit. 

When spring shines forth, season of love and joy, 

In the moist marsh, "mong bed of rushes hid. 

They cool their boiling blood. When summer suns 




■ Ere the morn 



Peeps ihroui^h the clouds, leaps to her close recess." 



As wandering shepherds on th' Arabian plains 
No settled residence observe, but shift 
Their moving camp; now, on some cooler liill, 
With cedars crowned, court the refreshing breeze; 
And then below, where trickling streams distil 
From some precarious source, their thirst allaj'. 
And feed their thirsting flocks : so the wise hares 
Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye 
Should mark theu" haunts, and by dark treacherous 
wiles 



Bake the cleft earth, to thick, wide-spreading fields 
Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young: 
But when autitmnal torrents and fierce rains 
Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank 
Their forms thej' delve, and cautiously avoid 
The dripping covert. Yet, when winter's cold 
Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed return'd, 
In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep 
Among the wither'd leaves ; thus changing still. 
As fancy prompts them, or as food invites. 

WiLT.IAM SOMEKVILLE. 



TO A SKYLARK. 



fllBlpArL to thee, blithe spirit! 
yMm Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
[n profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
13 



Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou sjiringest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. 



flowed. 
What thou art Ave kno\\' uot : 



198 THE GOLDE]Sr TEEASUEY. 

In the golden lightning Sound of vernal showers 

Of the sunken sun. On the twinkling grass. 

0"er which clouds are brightening, Eain-awakeued flowers, — 

Thou dost float and run. All that ever was 

Like an unbodied joj' whose race is just begun. Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

rr,, 1 1 Teach us, sprite or bird. 

The pale, purple even ' ^ 

,r li 1 j-i ii- -u,. ^\Tiat sweet thoughts are thine; 

Melts around th,y flight * ' 

Like a star of heaVen.' I ^^'-^^"^ •^^^'^'' ^<^'"-^ 

lu the broad daylight P^^i^^ «* ^^^^^ °^" ^""^ 

Thou art unseen, but yet'l hear thy shrill delight. ^hat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Keen as are the arrows Or triumphal chant. 

Of that silver sphere, Matched with thine would be all 

■\Vhose intense lamp narrows But an emptj- vaunt. — 

In the white dawn clear. ^ thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

Until we hardl.y see. we feel that it is there. 

AVhat objects are the fountains 

All the earth and air Of thy happy sti-ain':' 

With thy voice is loud. What fields of waves or mountains? 

As, when night is bare. Vfhat shapes of sky or plain? 

From one lonely cloud What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- „^.^, ,, , , 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 

Shadow of annoj'ance 

^ Never came near thee : 

\Vhat is most like thee? mi, i 4. i, 4. • i n • i .^ ._ 

^ . , T , , Thou lovest, but ne er knew love s sad satietj'. 

From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see. Waking m asleep. 

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Thou ot death must deem 

Things more time and deep 

Like a poet hidden ITian we mortals dream, 

In the light of thought. Or how could thy notes flow in such a ciystal sti'eam? 

Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the "world is wrought ^^'« ^^'^'^ ^^**^^^ """^ ^^t^r. 

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : ^'^^ P'^^^ *o^' ^'^^^ ^" ^"^ : 

Qui- sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fi'aught: 

Like a high-born maiden q^^^ sweetest songs are those 'that tell of saddest 

In a palace tower, thought. 

Soothing her love-laden 

Soal in secret hour Yet if we could scorn 

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Hate and pride and fear ; 

If we were things born 

Like a glow-worm golden, Not to shed a tear, 

In a dell of dew, I know not ho\v thy joy we ever should come near. 

Scattering unbeholden ^ ^^ 

., . . , Better than all measures 

Its aerial hue r\f -, t i ^ ^ 

A 4. 4.-U ^ -1 1-1 -^ j^ Of delightful sound. 

Amongst the floAvers and grass which screen it from _ ^ , ,, 

., . Better than all treasures 

the ^aew. rr.i .. . x, , ^ , 

That in books are found, 

T .1 1. J 'rby skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground I 

Like a rose embowered ° 

In its own gi-een leaves. Teach me half the gladness 

By warm winds deflowered. That thy brain must know. 

Till the scent it gives Such harmonious madness 

Makes faint with too much s\\-eet those heaAW- winged From thy lips would flow , ■ 

thieves. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



GLIMPSES or NATUKE. 



199 



TO A WILD DEER. 



|HlT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! 
^^1 Magnificent prison inclosing the free ! 
*^^ With rock-wall encu-cled — with precipice 
crown'd — 
Which, awoke hy the sun, thou canst clear at a 
hound. 
Mid the fern and the heather, kind Nature doth keep 
One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; 



Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, 
And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 
'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than 

himself, 
The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — 
Then starts from his labor, unwearied and gay, 
And, circling his antlers, booms far, far awaj\ 
While high up the mountains, in silence remote. 




' With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, 
There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest!" 



And close to that covert, as clear as the skies 
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies. 
■Where the creature at rest can his image behold. 
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as 

bold! 
How lonesome! how wild! yet the wildness is rife 
With the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. 
The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake. 
Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake! 



The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note; 

The mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, 

Like a voice from the loftier climate replies. 

With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, 

Thei'e lies the wild creature, e'en statel.y in rest! 

'Mid the grandeur of Nature, composed and serene. 

And pi'oud in his heart of the mountainous scene. 

He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven. 

At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven, 



200 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



As if iu his soiil tlie bold .ininial smiled 

To his friends of the skj', the joiut-heirs of the wild. 

Yes! fierce looks th5' nature, e"en hush"d in repose — 

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes. 

Thy hold antlers call on the hunter afar. 

With a haughty defiance to come to the war! 

Xo outrage is war to a creature like thee ! 

The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 

As thou barest thy neck on the wings of the wind. 

And the haggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 

In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death — 

In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath — 



In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar — 
In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more- 
Thy trust, "mid the dangers that threaten thy reign! 
But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? 
On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, 
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day : 
While hunter and hound in their ten-or reti-eat 
From the death that is spiu-n'd from his furious 

feet; 
And his last cry of anger comes back from the 

skies. 
As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 

John AVilson (Christopher North). 



-« — ^-'I'Z/Z^^^S/Z/v^ 




" Th' assembled chat; 

Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, 
But clear and pleasant, cheer th' extensive heath." 



THE HEATH. 



iERE the fm-ze, 
i^iTi Enrich"d among its spines with golden flowers, 
'^f^ Scents the keen air; while all its thorny groups, 
ii Wide scattered o"er the waste, are full of life ; 
For. midst its yellow bloom, th" assembled chats 
Wave high the tremulous ^^■ing. and with shrill notes. 
But clear and pleasant, cheer th" extensive heath. 
Linnets in numerous flocks frequent it too ; 
And bashful, hiding in the scenes remote 
From his congeners (they who make the woods 
And the thick copses echo to their song), 



The stonechat makes his domicile ; and while 
His patient mate with do\\ny bosom warms 
Their futiire nestlings, he his love-lay sings. 
Loud to the shaggy wild. The Erica here. 
That o"er the Caledonian hills sublime 
Spreads its dark mantle (where the bees delight 
To seek their purest honey), flourishes. 
Sometimes with bells like amethysts, and then 
Paler, and shaded like the maiden "s cheek 
With gradual blushes ; other \\'hile as white 
As rime that hangs upon the fi-ozen spraj\ 

Charlotte Smith. 




HE very soul seems to be refreshed on the bare recollection of the pleasure 
which the senses receive in contemplating, on a fine vernal morning, the 
charms of the pink, the violet, the rose, the honey-suckle, the hyacinth, the 
tulip, and a thousand other flowers, in every variety of figure, scent, and 
' hue : for Nature is no less remai'kable for the accuracy and beauty of her 

works than for variety and profusion. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



201 



THE SWALLOW. 



I^HE gorse is yellow on the heath, 

^ The biiuks with speedwell tlowers an 



speedwell tlowers are gay, 
The oaks are budding; and beneath. 
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, 
The silver wreath of May. 

The welcome guest of settled spring. 
The Swallow too is come at last; 

Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing, 

I saw her dash with rapid wing, 
And hail'd her as she pass'd. 

Come, summer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay; 
And let my ear your music catch, 
Low twittering underneath the thatch. 
At the grey dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian sage 

The Hindostani woods among, 
Could, in his distant hermitage. 
As if 'twere marked in written page. 

Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his power possess. 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, . 
What our vain systems only guess. 

And know from what wild wilderness 
You came across the sea. 

I would a little while restrain 

Your rapid wing, that I might hear 
Whether on clouds that bring the rain 
You sail'd above the western main. 
The wind your charioteer. 

In Afric, does the sultry gale 

Through spicy bowei- and palmy grove 
Bear the repeated cuckoo's tale? 
Dwells there a time the wandering rail, 

Or the itinerant dove? 

Were you in Asia? O relate 
If there your fabled sister's woes 

She seemed in sorrow to narrate; 

Or sings she but to celebrate 
Her nuptials with the rose? 



I would inquire how, journeying long 
The vast and pathless ocean o'er, 

You ply again those pinions strong, 

And come to build anew among 
The scenes you left before? 

But if, as colder breezes blow. 

Prophetic of the waning year. 
You hide, though none know when or how. 
In the cliff's excavated brow. 

And linger torpid here ; 

Thus lost to life, what favoring dream 

Bids you to hapi^ier hours awake. 
And tells that, dancing on the beam. 
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, 
The May-fly on the lake ? 




" The welcome guest of settled spring, 
The Swallow too is come at last." 



Or if, by instinct taught to know 

Approaching dearth of insect food, 
To isles and willowy aits you go, 
And, crowding on the pliant bough 
Sink in the dimpling flood ; 

How learn ye, while the cold waves boom 

Your deep and oozj^ couch above. 
The time when flowers of promise bloom. 
And call j-^ou from your transient tomb. 
To light, and life, and love? 

Alas ! how little can be known. 
Her sacred veil \\here Nature draws ; 

Let bafiled Science humbly own 

Her ms'steries, understood alone 
By Him who gives her laws. 

CH.A.RLOTTE SMITH. 



-^3~~S< 



gY heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on 
In silence round me — the perpetual work 
Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on Thy works I read 
The lesson of Thy own eternity. 



ii^O! all grow old and die — but, see again! 

W^, How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. 



202 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE SIERRAS. 



^IKE fragments of an uncompleted world. 

From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spraj', 
^'^ To where the peaks of Darien lie em-led 

In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray; 
The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay 
Forget the compass here ; with stmdy hand 
They seize the wheel, look up. then bravelj' lay 
The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand 
The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. 

I'Tiey stand white stairs of heaven — stand a line 
Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; 
They look upon the far and Hashing brine, 
Upon the boundless plains, the broken height 
Of Kamiakin"s battlements. The flight 
Of time is underneath their untopped towers; 
They seem to push aside the moon at night. 
To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers 
Of heaven fall about theu* brows in shining showers. 



They stand a line of lifted sno\^T isles. 
High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — 
A sea of \\ood in wild unmeasured miles; 
"\Miite pyramids of Faith where man is free; 
WTiite monuments of Hope that yet shall be 
The mounts of matchless and immortal song. 
I look far down the hollow days ; I see 
ITie bearded prophets, simple-souFd and sti-oug. 
That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding 
throng. 

Serene and satisfied I supreme ! as lone 
As God, they loom like God"s archangels churFd : 
They look as cold as kings upon a throne ; 
The mantling wings of night are crushed and curFd 
As feathers curl. The elements are hurFd 
From off their bosoms, and are bidden go. 
Like evil spirits, to an under-world; 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, 
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 

Joaquin Miller. 








SNOAV-FLAKES. 



kUT of the bo.«som of the Air. 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare. 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Siient and soft and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression. 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 



In the white countenance confession, 
Tlie ti-oubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air. 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair. 
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded. 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



203 



THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILT. 



3|hE noon was shady, and soft airs 

^ Swept Ouse's silent tide, 

"^'^ When, "scaped from literary cares, 
I wander'd by its side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of the race, 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace 

That spaniel found for me) . 



And puzzling set his puppy brains 
To comprehend the case. 

But, with a chirrup clear and strong 

Dispersing all his dream, 
I thence withdrew, and followed long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I returned ; 
Beau, trotting far before, 




" I saw him, with that lily cropp'd. 



Now wantoa'd, lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight. 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads, 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse display'd 

Her lilies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent survey' d 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far, I sought 

To steer it close to land : 
But still the prize, though nearly caught, 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 
With fix'd considerate face. 



The floating wreath again discern'd. 
And plunging left the shore. 

I saw him, with that lily cropp'd. 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 

The treasui'e at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, " The world," I cried, 

" Shall hear of this thy deed : 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superior breed : 

"But chief myself I will enjoin. 

Awake at dut}''s call. 
To show a love as prompt as thine 

To Him who gives me all."' 

William Covi^per. 



It is with flowers as with moral qualities — the bright are sometimes poison- 
ous, but, I believe, never the sweet. 



204 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



PLANTING THE APPLE-TEEE. 



.m^ 



|OME, let us plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greeusward with the spade; 
Wide let its hoUow bed he made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As i-ound the sleeping infant's feet 
We softly fold the cradle sheet; * 
So plant we the apple-tree. 



A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon. 
And drop, when gentle airs come by, 




" Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt, and sins:, and hide her nest." 



What plant we in this api^le-tree? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast 
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

WTien we plant the apple-ti'ee. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Sweets for a hundred tlowery springs 
To load the May-wind's restless wings. 
When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 



That fan the blue September sky, 

AVTiile children come, with cries of glee. 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass. 
At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-ti-ee. 
The winter stars are quivering bright. 
And winds go howling through the night. 
Girls, whose young eyes o'ertlow with mirth, 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth. 

And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra"s vine 

And golden orange of the Line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 



GLEVIPSES OF NATURE. 



205 



The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds aud our fla^ of stripe and star 
Shall hear to coasts that lie afar, 
"VVTiere men shall \\ouder at the view, 
And ask in -what fair groves they grew, 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day 
And long, long hours of summer play. 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 



And time shall waste this apple-ti-ee. 
O, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below. 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be. 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 

Is wasting this apple-tree? 




"Shall think of childhood's careless day, 
And long-, longp hours of summer play. 
In the shade of the apple-tree." 



Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie. 
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, ■ 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 



"Who planted this old apple-tree?" 
The children of that distant daj^ 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem. 
The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

" A poet of the land -was he. 
Born in the rude but good old times; 
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 

On planting the apple-tree." 

William Cullen Bryant. 



-C— "(.^l/V^^^^^eyOv-ir— « - 



THE DAISY. 



girfHERE is a flower, a little flower 
-'^*'^ With silver crest and golden eye. 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
J"^ And weathers every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field . 

In gay but quick succession shine ; 
Race after race their honors yield, 

Thev flourish and decline. 



But this small flower, to Nature dear, 
While moons and stars their courses run. 

Imvreathes the circle of the year. 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of ^lay. 

To snltiy August spreads its charm. 
Lights pale October on his way. 

And twines December's arm. 



206 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



The purple heath and golden broom 
On niooiy mountains catch the gale ; 

0"er lawns the lily sheds perfume. 
The violet in the vale. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the foi-est, haunts the glen. 

Plays on the margin of the rill. 
Peeps round the fox"s den. 



The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 

The wild bee murmm-s on its breast; 
The blue-fly bends its jaensile stem 

Light o"er the skylark's nest. 

'Tis Flora's page, — in every place. 
In every season, fresh and fair; 

It opens with perennial gi-aee, 
And blossoms everywhere. 




'T is Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair." 



Within the garden's cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation's bed; 

And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 



On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 

The rose has but a summer reign ; 
The dais}^ never dies ! 

James Montgomery. 



The sense of beauty in Nature, even among cultured people, is less often met with 
than other mental endowments. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



207 



THE ROBIN. 



SEE yon Robin on the spray ; 

i Look ye ! how his tiny form 
Swells, as when his merry lay 
Gushes forth amid the storm. 



Yet from out the dai-kness dreary 
Cometh still that cheerful note ; 
Praiseful aye, and never weary, 
Is that little warbling throat. 




" ThouE^h the snow is falling fast, 
Specking o'er his coat with white." 



Though the snow is falling fast, 
Specking o'er his coat with white — 
Though loud i-oars the chilly blast, 
And the evening's lost in night, — 



Thank him for his lesson's sake. 
Thank God's gentle minstrel there. 
Who, when storms-make others quake 
Sings of days that brighter were. 

Harrison Weir. 




ITHER always kept a flower in a glass on his writing-table; and when he was 
waging his great public controversy with Eckins he kept a flower in his hand. 
Lord Bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. As to Shakespeare, he is 
a perfect Alpine valley — he is full of flowers; they spring, and blossom, and 
wave in every cleft of his mind. Even Milton, cold, serene, and stately as he is, 
breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he marshals the 
flowers. 



208 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY, 




* And birds sit broodins' in the snow.' 



GLIMPSES OF jSTATUEE. 



209 



SPRING- AND WINTER. 



^^pHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, 
^IIR And ladj'-smocks all silver-white, 
' /OC And cuckoo-bnds of yellow hue, 
J>L Do paint the meadows with delight. 
The cuckoo then, on every tree. 
Mocks married men, for thus sings he, 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. 
And merry larks are iDloughinen's clocks, 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws. 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 

The cuckoo then, on every ti'ee, 

Mocks man-ied men, for thus sings he. 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuekoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



When icicles Iiang by the wall. 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 

And Tom bears logs into the hall. 
And milk comes frozen home in pail, 

"V^^ien blood is nipped, and ways be foul. 

Then nightly sings the staring omI, 
To-who ; 

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all around the wind doth blow. 

And coughing drowns the parson's sa\\-. 
And birds sit brooding in the snow. 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw. 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 
Then nightly sings the staring-owl, 

To-who; 
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the i^ot. 

William Shakespkare. 



MARCH. 



^HE stormy March is come at last. 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; 
I hear the rushing of the blast, 
That through the snowy valley flies. 



Ah, passing few are they who speak. 
Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; 

Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak. 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou, to Northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring. 

And thou hast joined the gentle ti-ain 
And wear'st llio gentle name of Spring. 

And in thy reign of blast and storm. 
Smiles many a long, bright sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of ^Nlay. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

In joy that they again are free. 
And, brightly leaping down the hills. 

Renew their journey to the sea. 



The year's depai'ting beautj' hides. 
Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 

But in thy sternest frown abides 
A look of kindly promise yet. 




Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Stately Spring ! whose robe-folds ;ire valleys, whose breast-bou(]uet is orardens, and 
whose blush is a vernal evonin<r. 



210 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 




AUTUMN'. 

N those parts of this continent which answer to the medium climates of 
Europe, and where Autumn has a decided character of her own, the 
season is indeed a noble one. Rich in bounty, I'ipening the blended 
fruits of two hemispheres, beauty is also her inalienable dower. Clear 
skies and cheerful breezes are more frequent throughout her course 
than storms and clouds. Fogs are rare indeed. ^Nlild, balmy aii's seem 
to delight in attending her steps, while the soft haze of the Indian 
summer is gathered, like a choice veil, about her brows, throwing a 
charm of its own over ever}" feature. The grain harvest has been 
given to summer; of all its treasures, she preserves alone the fragrant 
buckwheat and the golden maize. The nobler fruits are all hers — the 
finer peaches and plums, the choicest apples, pears and grapes. The homely but precious 
root harvest belono;s to her — wdnter stores for man and his herds. And now, when 
the year is drawing to a close, when the blessings of the earth have been gathered 
and stored, when every tree and i)lant have borne their fruits, when every held has 
yielded its produce, why should the sun shine brightly now? What has he more to 
ripen for us at this late da}'? 

At this very period, when the annual labors of the husbandman are drawing to a 
close, when the first light frosts ripen the w'ild grapes in the woods, and open the husks 
of the hickor}' nuts, bringing the last fruits of the year to maturit}', these are the 
days when, here and there in the groves, 3'ou will find a maple-tree whose leaves are 
touched with the gayest colors ; those are the heralds w^hich announce the approach of 
a brilliant pageant; the moment chosen by Autumn to keep the great harvest home 
of America is at hand. In a few days comes another and a sharper frost, and the 
whole face of the country is changed; we enjoy, with wonder and delight, a natui'al 
spectacle, great and beautiful beyond the reach of any human means. 

We are naturally accustomed to associate the idea of verdure with foliage — leaves 
should surely be green. But now we gaze in wonder as we behold colors so bi'illiant 
and so varied hung upon every tree. Tints that you have admired among the darker 
tulips and roses, the richer lilies and dahlias of the flower-garden : colors that have 
pleased your eye among the fine silks and wools of a lady's delicate embroider}'; dyes 
that the shopman shows off with complacency among his cashmeres and velvets; hues 
reserved by the artist for his proudest Avorks, — these we now see fluttering in the 
leaves of old oaks and tupeloes, liquid ambers, chestnuts and maples. 

We behold the green woods becomins; one mass of rich and varied colorinu;. It 
would seem as though Autumn, in honor of this high holiday, had collected together 
all the past glories of the past year, adding them to her own: she borrows the gay 
colors that have been l}"ing during the summer months among the flowers, in the fruits, 
upon the plumage of the bird, on the wings of the butterfly, and working them 
together in broad and glowing masses, she throws them over tlie forest to grace her 
triumph: like some great festival of an Italian city, where the people bring rich 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 211 

tapestries and hang them in their streets; where they unlock chests of heirlooms, and 
bring to light brilliant draperies, which they suspend from their windows and balconies, 
to o;leam in the sunshine. 

The hanging woods of a mountainous country are especially beautiful at this season ; 
the trees throwing out their branches, one above another, in bright variety of coloring 
and outline, every individual of the gay throng having a fancy of his own to humor. 
The oak loves a deep, rich red, or a warm scarlet, though some of his family arc 
partial to yellow. The chestnuts are all of one shadeless mass of gold color, from 
the highest to the lowest branch. The basswood, or linden, is orange. The aspen, 
with its silvery stem and branches, flutters in a lighter shade, like the wrought gold of 
the jeweler. The sumach, with its long, pinnated leaf, is of a brilliant scarlet. The 
pepperidge is almost purple, and some of the ashes approach the same shade during 
certain seasons. Other ashes, with the birches and beech, hickory and elms, have 
their own tints of yellow. That beautiful and common vine, the Virginia creeper, is a 
vivid cherry color. The sweet gum is vermilion. The viburnum tribe and dogwoods 
are dyed in lake. 

As for the maples, they always rank first among the show: there is no other tree 
which contributes singly so much to the beauty of the season, for it unites more of 
brilliancy with more of variety than any of its companions : with us it is also more 
common than any other tree. Here you have a soft maple, vivid scarlet from the 
highest to the lowest leaf; there is another, a sugar maple, a pure sheet of gold; this 
is dark crimson like the oak ; that is vermilion, another is parti-colored, pink and 
yellow, green and red ; yonder is one of a deep purplish hue ; this is still green, that 
is mottled in patches, another is shaded ; still another blends all these colors on its 
own branches, in capricious confusion, the different limbs, the separate twigs, the single 
leaves, varying from each other in distinct colors and shaded tints. And in every direc- 
tion a repetition of this magnificent picture meets the eye ; in the woods that skirt the 
dimpled meadows, in the thickets and copses of the fields, in the bushes which fringe the 
brook, in the trees which line the streets and roadsides, in those of the lawns and 
gardens, brilliant and vivid in the nearest groves, gradually lessening in tone upon the 
farther woods and successive knolls, until, in the distant background, the hills are colored 
by a mingled confusion of tints, which defy the eye to seize them. 

Among this brilliant display there are usually some few trees which fade, and wither, 
and dry into a homely brown, without appearing to feel the general influence ; the 
sycamores, the locusts, for instance, and often the elms also, have little beauty to 
attract the eye, seldom aiming at more than a tolerable yellow, though at times they 
may be brighter. 

Imported trees, transplanted originally from the old world, preserve, as a rule, the 
more sober habits of their ancestral woods. The Lombardy poplar and the weeping 
willow are only pale yellow ; the apple and pear trees, and some of the garden shrubs, 
lilacs, and syringas, and snowballs, generally wither, without brilliancy, though once 
in a while they have a fancy for something rather gayer than pale yellow or russet, and 
are just touched with red or purple. 

Some persons occasionally complain that this period of the year, this brilliant change 
in the foliage, causes melancholy feelings, arousing sad and sorrowful ideas, like the flush 



212 THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

on the hectic cheek. But surely its more natural meaning is of a very different import. 
Here is no sudden blight of youth and beauty ; no sweet hopes of life are blasted, no 
generous aim at usefulness and advancing virtue cut short ; the year is drawing to its 
natural term, the seasons have run their usual course, all their blessings have been 
enjoyed, all our precious things are cared for; there is nothing of untimeliness, nothing 
of disappointment in these shorter days and lessening heats of autumn. As well may 
we mourn over the gorgeous coloring of the clouds, which collect to pay homage to the 
setting sun, because they proclaim the close of day; as well may we lament the brilliancy 
of the evening star, and the silvery brightness of the crescent moon, just ascending 
into the heavens, because they declare the approach of Night and her shadow}^ train. 
Mark the broad land glowing in a soft haze, every tree and grove wearing its 
gorgeous autumnal drapery; observe the vivid freshness of the evergreen verdure; 
note amid the gold and crimson woods the blue lake, deeper in tint at this season 
than at any other; see a more quiet vein of shading in the paler lawns and pastures, 
and the dark-brown earth of the freshly-ploughed fields ; raise your eyes to the cloud- 
less sky above, filled vpith soft and pearly tints, — and then say, what has gloom to do 
with such a picture? Tell us, rather, where else on earth shall the human eye behold 
coloring so magnificent and so varied, spread over a field so vast, within one noble view? 
In very truth, the glory of these last waning days of the season proclaims a grandeur 
of beneficence which should rather make our poor hearts swell with gratitude at each 
return of the beautiful autumn accorded to us. 

Miss Cooper. 
■ — tsg— ^=^ — . 

THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 

E^'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock Should meet again like parted streams, 

1^ In all the fairy dells, Aud mingle as of old. 

11 And if I find the charmed leaf, Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part 

"i? Oh, how I'll -weave mj- spells ! In casting bliss around ; 

I would not waste my magic might Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, 

On diamond, pearl, or gold. Should in the world be found. 

For treasure tires the weary sense — ar. v. * *i * i i i 

•' llie heart that had been mournmg 

Such triumph is but cold : r\- • \ ^ ^ t ^ 

^ ,. .,; ^ , , ,. . ^ O er vanished dreams of love, 

Should see them all returning. 

Like Xoah's faithful dove. 
And Hope should launch her blessed bark- 
On Sorrow's darkening sea. 
To worth I would give honor. And :^IiserJ^'s children have an ark, 

I'd dry the mourner's tears, And saved from sinking be. 

Xnd. to the pallid lip recall Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part 

The smile of happier years ; In casting bliss around ; 

Aud hearts that had lieen long estranged, Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart. 

And friends that had gl•o^^•n cold. Should in the world be found. 

Samuel Lover. 

^^F the raatei-ials which form the globe were built up in the form of a column, having a 
i^ pedestal of the magnitude of England and Wales, the height of the column would be 
^^ nearly four and a half millions of millions of miles. A tunnel through the earth 
from England to New Zealand would be nearly eight thousand miles long. 



But I will plaj^ the enchanter's part 

In casting bliss around ; 
Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, 

Should in the world be found. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



2U 



e^^9 

^^OOR little foal of an oppressed race ! 
^^m I love the lauo-uid ijatience of thy face : 
X Aud oft with gentle hand 1 give thee hi-ead, 
]|[ Aud clap thy ragged coat, aud pat thj' head. 
I ButA\hat tli}^ dulled spirits hath dismay "d. 
That never thou dost sport along the glade ':* 
And (uiost unlike the nature of things j'ouug) 
That eartliward still thy moveless head is hung? 
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, 
Meek child of misery! thy future fate. — 



TO A YOUNG ASS. 



Poor ass ! thy master should have learnt to show 
Pity— best taught by fellowship of woe; 
For much I fear me tluit he lives like thee, 
Half famish'd in a land of luxury I 
IIow askingly its footsteps hither bendl 
It seems to say. •• And have I then one friend y "' 
Innocent foal ! thou poor despised, forlorn ! 
I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn ; 
And fain would take thee with me. in the dell 
Of peace and mild equality to dwell. 







The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 
'' Which patient merit of th' unworthy takes?" 
Or is thy sad heart thrilPd with filial pain. 
To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain? 
And truly very piteous is her lot, 
Chained to a log within a narrow spot. 
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen. 
Wliile sweet around her waves the tempting green! 
14 



' Is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain. 
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?" 



WTiere toil shall call the charmer health his bride. 

And laughter tickle jilentyV ribless side! 

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome ])lay, 

And frisk about as lamb or kitten gay! 

Yea. and more musically sweet to me 

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be. 

Than ^\-arbled melodies, that soothe to rest 

The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast! 

SAMLKL T.WI.Ort ("OI,ERrDGE. 



214 



THE GOLDEN TEEASITIY. 



THE FIRST DAT OF SPRING. 






%■ 



THOU bright and beautiful day, 
First briglit day of tlie virgin spring, 

Bringing tlie slumbering life into play. 
Giving the leaping bird his \\-ing ! 



I hear thy voice in the lark's clear note. 
In the orickefs chirp at the evening hour. 

In the zephyr's sighs that around me float. 
In the breathing bud and the opening flower, 




' In the thousand plants that spring to birth, 
3n the valley's side in the home of shade." 



Thou art round me now in all thy hues, 
Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets. 

In thy bursting buds, in thy blessing dews. 
In every form that my footstep meets. 



I see thy forms o'er the parting earth. 
In the tender shoots of the grassy blade. 

In the thousand plants that spring to birth. 
On the vallev's side in the home of shade. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



215 



1 feel thy promise in all my veins, 

They bound with a feeling long suppressed, 
And, like a captive who breaks his chains, 

Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. 



There are life and joy in thy coming, Spring! 

Thou hast no tidings of gloom and death : 
Bnt buds thou shakest from everj' wing. 

And sweets thou breathest with every breath. 

William Gilmore Simms. 






-^^5 



DAY IS DYING. 



|AY is dying ! Float, O song. 
Down the westward river, 
j?'^ Requiem chanting to the Day - 
J4 Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds. 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky. 

Earth and heaven blending. 

All the long-dra\^■n earthly banks 
Up to cloud-land lifting ; 



Slow between them drifts the swan, 
'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open like a flower 

Inly deeply flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying ! Float, O swan, 

Down the ruby river; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 




" I steal bv lawns and grassy plots ; 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers." 



SONG OF THE BROOK. 



Ip COME from haunts of coot and hern ; 
^ I make a sudden sally 
-$'" And sparkle out among the fern. 
To l)icker down a vallev. 



By thirty hills I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By fr\vent;\' thorps, a little town. 
And half a hundred bridges. 



21G 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



Till last l\v Philip's farm 1 llow 
To join the briniiniiig river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter ovej- stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By man}' a field and fallow, 

And many a fair}' foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
AVith here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With man}' a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip. I slide, I gloom. I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows; 



I murmur undei- moon and start 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 
I loiter round my cresses; 




" I chatter o\er stony \\a\s." 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

Alfred Tennyson, 



o>.K^3~C° 



HAIL, HOLT LIGHT. 



^IpALL. holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ! 
|l^ Or of the Eternal coeternal beam. 
^p" May I express thee unblamed? since God is 

ll light. 

And never but in uuapproach^d light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee. 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream. 
AVTiose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun. 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
Won from the void and formless Infinite! 



For wonderfid indeed are all his works. 

Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all 

Had in remembrance always with delight I 

But what created mind can comprehend 

Tlieir number, or the wisdom infinite 

ITiat brought them forth, but hid their causes deep? 

I saw when, at his word, the formless mass. 

This world's material mould, came to a heap : 

Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar 

Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined: 

Till, at his second bidding, darkness fled. 

Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. 

John Milton. 



GLLyiPSES OF NATURE. 



■21- 



SPRING. 



^0! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
lejsMi Fair Venus' train, appear, 
VSi^ Disclose the long-expecting- flowers 
t] And wake the purple year! 

The Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
The untaught harmony of spring : 
While whispering pleasure as they fly. 
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
Their gathered fragrance fling. 



And float amid the liquid noon : 
Some lightly o"er the current skim, 
Some show their gayly gilded trim 
Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

iSuch is the race of man ; 
And they that creep, and they that fly, 

yhall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter through life's little day, 




' Still is the toiling hand of care ; 
The panting herds repose." 



Where'er the oak's thick branches sti-etch 

A broader, browner shade. 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'ei-canopies the glade, 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
How low, how little are the proud. 

How indigent the great! 

Still is the toiling hand of care; 

The panting herds repose : 
Yet hark, how through the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows ! 
The insect youth are on the wing. 
Eager to taste the honeyed spring 



In Fortune's varying colors drest : 
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance 
Or chilled by age, their airj^ dance 
They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply : 
Poor moralist! and what art thou? 

A solitary fly ! 
Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
No hive hast thou of hoarded s\\-eets, 
No painted plumage to display; 
On hasty wings thj^ youth is flown; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone. — 

We frolic while 't is May. 

Thomas Gray. 



218 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 




A WINTER MORXIXG. 



^P|l8 morning; and the sun. with ruddy orb 

^^ Ascending, lires the horizon ; while the clouds 

'Jv ITiat crowd away before the driving ^^ind. 
©its ■ '^ 

'F More ardent as the disk emerges more. 

Resemble most some city in a blaze. 

Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 

Slides ineffecttial dovni the snowy vale. 

And. tingeing all with his own rosy hue. 

From eyeiy herb and eyerr spiry blade 

Sti-etches a length of shadow o"er the field. 

Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 

In spite of gravity, and sage remark 

That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 

Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 

[ view the muscular proportioned limb 

Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 

As they designed to mock me. at my side 

Take step for step; and. as I near approach 



The cottage, walk along the plastered wall. 
Preposterous sight I the legs without the man. 
ITie verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents. 
And coarser grass upspearing o"er the rest. 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad. 
And. fledged with icy feathers, not superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Tlieir wonted fodder: not. like hungering man. 
Fretful if unsupplied : but silent, meek. 
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustomed load. 
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft. 
His broad keen knife into the solid mass: 
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



219 



With such uudeviatiiig and even force 
lie .severs it away : uo needless care 
Lest storms slioold overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
Foitli goes the woodman, leaving uncoucei-ned 
The cheerful haunts of men — to wield the axe 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, 
And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow; and now, \\ith many a frisk 
Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; 
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. 
***** 

Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, 
Wliere, diligent to catch the lirst faint gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood. 
Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 
To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
Clean riddance quickly made, one onlj' care 
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted sti'ut, and, wading at their head 
With well-considered steps, seems to resent 



His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 

How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs. 

Due sustenance, or where subsist they now^ 

Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe 

Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 




^^^j 



m 

' The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves." 



Lie covered close ; and berry-bearing thorns. 

That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose). 

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 

The long protracted rigor of the year 

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes 

Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 

An instinct prompts; self -buried ere they die. 

William Cowpek. 

-s .4,. 




WINTRY WEATHER. 

INTER, wilt thou never, never go? 

O Summer, but I weary for thj^ coming. 

Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, 

And frugal bees, laboriously humming. 

Now the east wind diseases the infirm. 

And I must crouch in corners from rough weather; 

Sometimes a winter simset is a charm — 

When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, 

And the large sun dips red behind the hills. 

I. from my window, can behold this pleasure; 

And the eternal moon, what time she fills 

Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure. 

With queenly motions of a bridal mood, 

Through the white spaces of infinitude. 

David Gray. 



The key of Nature is laid .at man's feet, because he is its divinely-constituted 



sovereiarn. 



220 



THE GOLDEN TEEASIIRY. 




" Then lads and lassies all, be gay. 
For this is nature's holiday." 



MAT-DAY. 



!|HE daisies peep from every field. 
Aud violets sweet their odor yield : 
The purple blossom paints the thorn, 
And streams reflect the blush of morn. 
Then lads and lassies all, be gaj'. 
For this is nature's holiday. 

Let lustj' Labor drop his flail. 
Xor woodman's hook a tree assail, 
The ox shall cease his neck to bow, 
And Clodden yield to rest the plough. 



Behold the lark in ether float, 
^A^iile rapture swells the liquid note! 
'\\1iat ^^■arbles he. with merry cheer? 
" Let love aud pleasure rule the year! 

Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. 
And throws a smile around his sky; 
Embracing hill and vale and stream. 
And warming nature M'ith his beam. 



John Wolcott. 



THE EAELY PEIMEOSE. 



ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire'? 
^Miose modest form, so delicately fine. 
Was nursed in whirling storms 
And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's 

sway. 
Aud dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 

Thee on this bank he threw. 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale the promise of the year. 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

I'nnoticed and alone. 

Tin' tender elegance. 



So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversitj- ; in some lone walk 

Of life .she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobsen'cd ; 

AVliile every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless puritj' of breast. 
And hardens her to bear 
.Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 



, IT came o'er my car like the sweet South, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
Stealin"' and sjiviuir odors. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUEE. 



221 




LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 



'^f 



inflow snow-di'ops cold aud blue-eyed harebells 
blend 
ff^ Their tender teais, as o'er the streams they 

ii ^^'^^^ 

The love-sick violet aud the primrose pale 
Bow their sweet heads aud whisper to the gale ; 
With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, 
Aud jealous cowslips hang their tawuy cups. 
How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride, 
Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; 
With honeyed lips euamored woodbines meet, 
Clasp with fond arms, aud mix their kisses sweet ! 



Stay thy soft nuirmuring waters, geutle rill; 
Hush, whisperiug winds; ye rustling leaves, he still; 
Rest, silver butterflies, your quivering wings; 
Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings ; 
Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, 
Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uucurl; 
Glitter, ye glow-worms, on j-our mossy beds; 
Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads; 
Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells; 
Ye bee-nymi:)hs, listen in your waxeu cells ! 

Ekasmus Darwin. 



-f~-'<-^i^zrz^=^-2yzn^-v~-s- 




TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

^^WEET bird! that sing'st away the earlv hours 
i*^""- Of ^\^nters past, or coming, void of care; 
' ' Well pleased with delights which present are. 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 
flowers : 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, 



Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which \ij Xhy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and \\rongs. 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? 
Sweet artless songster ! thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, — yes, and to angels' lays. 

William Drummond- 
THE ANGLEE. 

|ij|j?' genial spring, beneath the quivering shade. 

^^ "Where cooling vapors breathe along the mead. 

« The patient fisher takes his silent stand, 
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand ; 
With looks immoved, he hopes the scaly breed. 
And eves the dancing cork, and bending reed. 



i-l'l 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY, 

THE TIGER. 



c.m/;IGER. tiger, burning bright 
^^ In the forests of the night, 



What immortal hand or eye 
Could fi-ame thy fearful symmetry? 



"What the hammer, what the chain? 
In what f m'uaee uas thy brain "? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 




" Ti^^er, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the niarht." 



In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize thy fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand formed thj^ dread feet? 



"VMien the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile his work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, tiger, bm-ning bright. 
In the forests of the night, 
^Vliat immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful s;^^nmetl•y? 

Willi A3I Blake. 



^jJpHE thrush derives its name from mistletoe berries, of which it is exceedingly fond. 
^i^ It is famed for its clear, ringing, musical note, and sings loudest, and sweetest, and 
longest in storms: hence it is no mean teacher to man, whose sons: of gladness and grati- 
tude should rise to heaven — not only when his sky is clear, but when it is darkened with 
clouds, and the storm poi'tends fearful disasters. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUEE. 



223 




" He clasps the crag with hooked hands." 



THE EAGLE. 



pE clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
'^^ Einged with the azure world, he stands. 



The wrinkled sea heneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



-^-g-^i 



|HAT a desolate place would be this world without a flower ! It would be a 
■J8^^1f face without a smile, — a feast without a welcome! Are not flowers the 
stars of the earth? and are not our stars the flowers of heaven? 



2-24: 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



A SUMMER MORN. 



^^:UT who the melodies of morn can tell? 
^P^ The wild brook babbling down the mountain- 
II side; 

% The lo^\^ug herd; the sheepf old's simple bell; 
■ The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and A\-ide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 



Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower. 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 










O Nature, how in every charm supreme." 






The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; 
frowned with her pail the ti'ipping milkmaid sings ; 
'i'ho whistling ploughman stalks afield, and. hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; 



O, for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
To sing thy glories with devotion due. 
Blest be tlie day T "scaped the ^^Tangling crew 
From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' stj-. 
And held high converse with the god-like few 
"Who to the enraptured heart and ear and eye 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody. 

James Beattie. 



GLIJVIPSES OF NATURE. 



22,3 



SUNSET AT NOKHAM CASTLE. 



ilAY set on Norham's castled steep, 

And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, 
And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
• The battled towers, the donjon keep, 
ITie loop-hole grates where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep. 
In yellow lustre shone. 

The warriors on the turrets high. 
Moving athwart the evening sky. 

Seemed forms of giant height; 
Their armor, as it caught the rays. 



Above the gloomy portal arch. 
Timing his footsteps to a march. 
The warder kept his guard, 
Low humming, as he paced along. 
Some ancient border-gathering song. 

A distant tramping sound he hears; 
He looks abroad, and soon aj^peai's, 
O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears 

Beneath a pennon gaj' : 
A horseman, darting from the crowd. 
Like lightning from a summer cloud. 




' Cheviot's mountains lone.' 



Flashed back again the western blaze 
In lines of dazzling light. 

St. George's banner, broad and gay, 

Now faded, as the fading ray 

Less bright, and less, was flung; 

TThe evening gale had scarce the power 

To wave it on the donjon tower, 
So heavily it hung. 

The scoiits had parted on their search, 
The castle gates were baiTcd ; 



Spurs on his mettled courser jiroud, 
Before the dark arraJ^ 

Beneath the sable palisade. 
That closed the castle barricade. 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 
The warder hasted from the wall. 
And warned the captain in the hall. 

For well the blast he knew ; 
And joyfully that knight did call 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Nature is like an ^olian harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of 
higher strings within us. 



226 



THE GOLDEX TREASURT. 



TO THE DAi^DELIOK 



|EAR common flower, that growest beside the 

Friugiug the dusty road with harmless gold. 

Fii-st pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, 
uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

\ATiich not the rich earth's ample round 

May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me 

Than all the prouder summer-blooms ma}' be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish pro^^■ 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas. 

Xor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters noM' 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand. 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italj''; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 

Xot in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
In the white lily's bi'eezy tent. 
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 



m 



Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, - 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

WTiere. as the breezes pass, 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand wajs, — , 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above. 
Where one ^\•hite cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

Mj' childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's sono-. 

"\Mio, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all daj- long. 

And I, secure in childish pietj-. 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresb every day to my untainted ears. 
When birds and flowers and I were hai:)pj'^ peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
Wlien thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart. 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe. 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

J. R. Lowell. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



ijlKAY-STiVRS I that ope your eyes with morn to 
^# twinkle, 

X From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
* And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshipers ! who bending lowly 

Before the uprisen sun — God's lidlcss eye — 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy ^ 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beautj' 

The floor of Na'^ure's temple tessellate. 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swiugcth 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the flelds. and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Xot to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal liand. 



But to that fane. 



most catholic and solemn. 
Which God hath planned ; 



To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supjily— 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder. 
Its dome the sky. 

There — as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the 
sod. 
Awed by the silence, revei'ently ponder 
The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor 

■• Weep without woe, and blush without a crime." 
Oh. may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender. 
Your lore sublime! 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



227 



" Thou weit uot, Soloiuou! in all thy glory, 

Arrayed,"' the lilies cry, '• in robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! 

With which thoupaintestjSTature's wide-spread hall, 
^V^lat a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all. 



Ephemeral sages ! what instructors lioarj' 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori. 

Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 

Upraised from seed or bulh interred in earth. 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 




" There — as in solitude and sliade I wander 
ThrougVi tlie green aisles, ..." 



Not useless are ye. Flowers! though made for 
pleasure : 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 



Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining. 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. 
Priests, sermons, shrines! 

Horace Smith. 



-lTxS6,'5- 



SOLACE IF NATURE. 



i*|^ATURE never did betray 

^p The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege. 

"X^^ Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
I From joy to joy; for she can so inform 
f The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dresiry intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. 



Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thj' solitary walk; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee; and, in after ji-ears, 
WTien these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when the mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms; 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies : oh! then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with ^\■hat healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
And these my exhortations ! 

William WordswortiI. 



228 



THE GOLDEIS^ TREASURY. 



JUXE. 



^Jg^UlTH gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 
The beggar is taxed for a eoruer to die in; 
The priest has his fee who comes aud slu-ives us ; 
We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with the whole souFs tasking; 

■Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
"Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer, 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 



Ever}^ clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping bliudlj^ above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happj' creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 




" Now is the high-tide of the 

year. 
And whatever of life hath 

ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a 

ripply cheer." 



And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 

And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
"\Miether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 



And lets his illumined being o'errun 

"With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
Aud the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings. 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest. — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



229 



Now is the high-tide of the year, 
And whatever of life hath ebbed away 

Comes flooding back, with a i-ipply eheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wiUs it; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

"Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 

We sit iu the warm shade and feel right well 

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is growing; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear 

That dandelions are blossoming near. 
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 

That the river is bluer than the sky. 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 

And if the breeze kept the good news back. 

For other couriers we should not lack ; 



We could guess it all bj'' j^on heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year. 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everj'thing is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving; 
"Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 

"Tis the natural way of living : 
AVho knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscai'red heaven they leave no wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears thej' have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth. 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep "neath a silence pure and smooth. 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 



ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOUGH. 




Ifl'EE, modest, crimson-tipp6d flower, 

'"^ Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
f^ For I maun crush amang the stoure 
Jl^ Thy slender stem : 

To spai'e thee now is past mj^ power. 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lai-k, companion meet. 
Bending thee "mang the dewy weet, 

WV speckled breast. 
When upward springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east! 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm; 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form ! 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O" clod or stane 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scantj^ mantle clad. 
Thy snawy bosom sumvard spread, 
TIiou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise ; 
15 



But now the share uptears thy bed. 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade I 
By love's simplicity betrayed. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid 

Low i" the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless staiTcd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Wlio long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink. 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heav<>n, 

He, mined, sink! 

E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 

Robert Burns. 



230 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 




THE WOKDEES OF ASTEOI^OMT. 



HE great object of all knowledge is to enlarge and purify the soul, to fill 
the mind with noble contemplations, and to furnish a refined pleasure. 
Considering this as the ultimate end of science, no branch of it can surely 
claim precedence of astronomy. No other science furnishes such a pal- 
pable embodiment of the abstractions which lie at the foundation of our 
intellectual system — the great ideas of time, and sj^ace, and extension, 
and magnitude, and number, and motion, and power. How grand the 
conception of the ages on ages required for several of the secular equa- 
tions of the solar system ; of distances from which the light of a fixed 
star will not reach us in twenty millions of years ; of magnitudes, com- 
pared with which the earth is but a football ; of starry hosts, suns like 
our own, numberless as the sands on the shore; of worlds and systems 
shooting through the infinite spaces, with a velocity compared with which the cannon-ball 
is a way-worn, heavy-paced traveler ! 

I had occasion, once, to take the early train from Providence to Boston, and for this 
purpose rose at two o'clock in the morning. Ever^iihing around Avas wrapped in darkness 
and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the unearthly clank and 
rush of the train. It w^as a mild, serene midsummer's night; the sk}' was without a 
cloud; the w'inds were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the 
stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. Jupiter, two hours 
high, was the herald of the day; the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet 
influence in the east ; Lyra sparlded near the zenith ; Andromeda veiled her newly discov- 
ered glories from the naked eye, in the south; the steady pointers, far beneath the pole, 
looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign. 

Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid 
approach of twilight became more perceptible ; the intense blue of the sk}^ began to soften ; 
the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister-beams of the Pleiades 
soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained un- 
changed. Steadil}' the wondrous transfigiiration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from 
mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the 
glories of dawn. 

The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch-stars shut up their holy 
eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the 
whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came 
pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we reached the 
Blue Hills, a flash of purple tire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy 
tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting 
gates of the morning w^ere thrown wide open, and the loi'd of day, arrayed in glories too 
severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 



I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient Magians, who m the morning of the 
world went up to the hill-tops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true God, adored the 



GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 231 

most glorious work of his hand. But I am filled with amazement when I am told that, in 
this enlightened age and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can 
witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say in 
their hearts, "There is no God." 

But it is when we turn our observation and our thoughts from our own system to the 
systems which lie beyond it in the heavenly spaces, that we approach a more adequate 
conception of the vastness of creation. All analogy teaches us that the sun which o-ives 
lio-ht to us is but one of those countless stellar fires which deck the firmament, and that 

o - 

every glittering star in that shining host is the centre of a system, as vast and as full of 
subordinate luminaries as our own. Of these suns — centres of planetary systems — thou- 
sands are visible to the naked eye, millions are discovered by the telescope. 

Sir John Herschel, in the account of his operations at the Cape of Good Hope, calcu- 
lates that about five and a half millions of stars are visible enough to be distinctly counted 
in a twenty-foot reflector in both hemispheres. He adds, "That the actual number is 
much greater, there can be little doubt." His illustrious father estimated, on one occa- 
sion, that one hundred and twenty-five thousand stars passed through the field of his forty- 
foot reflector in a quarter of an hour. This would give twelve millions for the entire cir- 
cuit of the heavens, in a single telescopic zone; and this estimate was made under the 
assumption that the nebulae were masses of luminous matter not yet condensed into suns. 

These stupendous calculations, however, form but the first coluum of the inventory of 
the universe. Faint white specks are visible even to the naked eye of a practiced observer 
in different parts of the heavens. Under high magnifying powers, several thousands of 
such spots are visible — no longer, however, faint white specks, but many of them resolved 
by powerful telescopes into vast aggregations of stars, each of which may with propriety 
be compared with the milky way of our system. 

It may be thought that conceptions like these are calculated rather to depress than to 
elevate us in the scale of being ; that, banished as he is by these contemplations to a corner 
of creation, and there reduced to an atom, man sinks to nothingness in this infinity of 
worlds. But a second thought corrects the impression. These va-t contemplations are 
well calculated to inspire awe, but not abasement. IMind and matter are incommensurable. 
An immortal soul, even while clothed in this "muddy vesture of decay," is, in the eye of 
God and reason, a purer essence than the brightest sun that lights the depths of heaven. 
The organized human eye, instinct with life and spirit, which, gazing through the telescope, 
travels up to the cloudy speck in the handle of Orion's sword, and bids it blaze forth into 
a galaxy as vast as ours, stands higher in the order of being than all that host of lumina- 
ries. The intellect of Newton, which discovered the law that holds the revolving worlds 
together, is a nobler work of God than a universe of universes of unthinking matter. 

If we adopt the supposition that the countless planetary worlds which attend these 
countless suns are the abodes of rational beings like man, instead of bringing back from 
this exalted conception a feeling of insignificance, as if the individuals of our race were but 
poor atoms in the infinity of being, I regard it, on the contrary, as a glory of our human 
nature that it belongs to a family, which no man can number, of rational natures like 
itself. In the order of being they may stand beneath us, or they may stand above us ; he 
may well be content with his place who is made "a little lower than the angels." 

Edwahp Eaeiiett. 



232 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 




" I in these flowery meads ■would be, 
These crystal streams should solace me." 



THE ANGLER'S WISH. 



IP EN these flowery meads would be, 
^M These ciystal streams should solace me; 
X To whose harmonious bubhliug noise, 
I I with my Angle would rejoice, 
(• Sit here, and see the turtle-dove, 

Comt his chaste mate to acts of love : 



And raise my low-pitch"d thoughts above 
Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' com-ts, I would rejoice : 

Or with my Biyan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawf ord Brook ; 




" Or with my Bryan and a book, 
Loiter long^ days near Sliawford Brook.' 



Or on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plentw please my mind 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. 
And then wash off by April showers : 

Here hear ray Kenna sing a song. 

There see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a laverock build her nest ; 
Here give my weary spirits rest, 



There sit by him. and eat my meat. 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good-morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 
And angle on. and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

IzAAK Walton. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUHE. 



233 



THE BROOM. 



||H! the broom, the bonny, bouny broom, 

On my native hills it g•l•o\^'s ; 
I had rather see the bonny broom. 

Than the rarest tlower that blows. 
Oh! the yellow broom is blossoming. 

In my o\\'n dear country ; 
I never thought so small a thing 
As a flower mj' nerveless heart could wring. 

Or draw a tear from me. 

It minds me of my native hills. 

Clad in the heath and feu; 
Of the green strath and the flowery brae. 

Of the glade and the rockless glen ; 



It minds me of dearer things than these — 

Of love with life entwined. 
Of humble faith on bended knees. 
Of home joys gone, and memories. 

Like sere leaves, left behind ! 

It minds me of that blessed time. 

Of the friends so true to me. 
Of my warm-hearted Highland love. 

When the broom was the trysting-tree. 
I loathe this fair but foreign strand. 

With its fadeless summer hloom ; 
And I swear, by my own dear native land. 
Again on the heathy hills to stand, 

Where waves the yellow broom. 

Mary Howitt. 



-^^H 




" Still on thy banks so gfayly green 

May numerous flocks and herds be seen." 



ODE TO LEVEN 

IN" Leven's banks, while free to rove 

And tune the rural pipe to love, 

I envied not the happiest s\\'ain 

That ever trod th" Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transjiarent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave. 
No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course. 
That sweetly warbles o'er its hed. 
With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; 
"WTiile, lightlj' poised, the scaly brood 
In m;iTiads cleave thy crystal flood; 
The springing trout, in speckled pride; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 



WATER. 

The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par; 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make. 
By bowers of birch and groves of pine. 
And edges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gayly green 
May numerous flocks and herds be seen ; 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
And shepherds piping in the dale; 
And ancient faith that knows no guile. 
And industry imbrowned by toil. 
And hearts i-esolved. and hands prepared. 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 

Tobias GtEORge Smollet. 



234 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 




" Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing." 



THE BIRDS. 




pHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail? 
O. "tis the ravished nightingale — 
■iP~ Jug. jng. jug, jug — tereu — she cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick-song ! who is "t now we hear? 
N'oue but the lark so shrill and clear, 



Xow at heaven's gate she claps her wings. 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark! hark! but what a prettj- note. 
Poor Robin-redbreast times his throat • 
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing 
"Cuckoo! '■ to welcome in the sprin.i^. 

John Ltly. 



The presence of the love of Nature is an invariable sign of goodness of heart and just- 
ness of moral perception, though by no means of moral practice. ^Mien it is originally 
absent from any mind, that mind is in many respects hard, worldly and degraded. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



235 



A SPRING DAY. 



^^DVANCING spring profusely spreads abroad 
^IIP Flowers of all hiii^s, with sweetest fragrance 
^f^ stored ; 

Jl Where'er she ti-eads Love gladdens over plain, 
Delight on tiptoe bears lier lucid train ; 
Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, 
Anticipating wealth from Summer skies ; 



All Nature feels her renovating sway ; 

The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadows gay; 

And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen. 

Display the new-grown branch of lighter green ; 

On airy downs the idling shepherd lies. 

And sees to-morrow in tlie marbled slcies. 

Robert Bloom field. 



■ 




si*?s*?'''>° *-■>-%'■"" \f'fjy i''^^<'.i'i 



" The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadows gay." 
.4.. ^-'zfS^ ■■f.' 

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. 



|HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice? 
"Why with that boding cry 
O'er the waves dost thou fly? 
O, rather, bird, -s\'ith me 
Through the fair land rejoice! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea; 
Thy cry is weak and scared. 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
■What does it bring to me? 

'lliou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
Restless and sad ; as if. in strange accord 
With motion and with roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery— the Word. 



Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall. 

Old ocean, art! A reqviiem o'er the dead, 

From out thj' gloomy cells, 

A tale of mourning tells, — 

Tells of man's woe and fall. 

His sinless glorj' fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
\^'^lere the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
Thy spirit nevermore. 
Come, quit ^\'ith me the shoi-e. 
For gladness and the light. 
Where birds of summer sing. 

Richard Henry Dana. 



sO daintie flo^vre or herbe that growes on grownd, 
l^j^ No arborett with painted blossoms drest 
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fowud 
To bud out faire, and tlirowe her sweete smels al 
arownd. 



236 



THE GOLDEX TKEASURY. 




" Hundreds have come to view 
My grandeur in decay." 



THE AGED OAK AT OAKLEY. 



WAS a youno- fair tree ; 

Each spring with quivering green 

My boughs were clad, and far 

Down the deep vale a light 

Shone from me on the eyes 

Of those who pass'd, — a light 

That told of sunny days. 

And blossoms, and blue skj^; 

For I was ever first 

Of all the grove to hear 

The soft voice underground 

Of the warm-working spring, 



And ere my brethren stirr'd 
Their sheathed bud. the kine, 
And the kine"s keeper, came 
Slow up the valley path. 
And laid them underneath 
My cool and rustling leaves, 
And I could feel them there 
As in the quiet shade 
ITiej' stood with tender thoughts. 
That passed along their life 
Like wings on a still lake. 
Blessing me ; and to God, 
I 



GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 



237 



The blessed God, who cares 
For all my little leaves, 
Went up the sileut praise ; 
Aud I was glad with jo.y 
Which life of laboring things 
111 knows — the joy that sinks 
Into a life of rest. 
Ages have tied since then. 
But deeni not my fierce trunk 
And scanty leafage serve 
Ko high behest ; mj' name 
Is sounded far and A\'ide ; 
And in the Providence 
That guides the steps of men, 



Hundreds have come to view 
My grandeur in deca.y; 
And there hath pass'd from me 
A quiet influence 
Into the minds of men : 
The silver head of age, 
The majesty of laws, 
The very name of God, 
And holiest things that are. 
Have won upon the heart 
Of human kind the more. 
For that I stand to meet 
With vast and bleaching trunk, 
The rudeness of the sky. 

Henry Alford. 



THE PHEASANT. 



^ 



|LOSE by the borders of the fringed lake. 
And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen. 
What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake, 
And gently murmur through the sjdvan scene. 
The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes. 
That fade alternate, and alternate glow: 
Receiving now his color from the skies. 
And now reflecting back the watery bow. 
He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest. 
His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; 
He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, 
And glares a wonder of the Orient day. 



SNOW. 

^HE blessed morn has come again ; 
The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window-pane. 

And seems to say. 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain 
Away, away! 



THE THRUSH. 

lONGSTER of the russet coat, 
-.™,,, Full and liquid is thy note; 
'^ Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, 
f Captivating at thy will. 

Small musician of the field. 
Near my bower thy tribute yield. 
Little servant of the ear. 
Ply thy task, and never fear. 

I will learn from thee to praise 
God. the Author of my days; 
I will learn from thee to sing. 
Christ, my Saviour and my King; 
Learn to labor with my voice. 
Make the sinking heart rejoice. 



l^jT last the golden oriental gate 
*Ysfe Of greatest heaven "gan to open fair, 
And Ph(jebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate. 
Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair; 
And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy aii-. 




'Tis winter, yet there is no sound 

Along the air 
Of winds along their battle-ground ; 

But gently there 
The snoM' is falling, — all around 

tlow fair, how fair! 

Ralph Hoyt. 



238 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE O'LINCOLN FAMILY 




FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sporting 
in the grove : 
Some were ^\'arbling cheerilj', and some Avei-e 

making love : 
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon,Winter- 
seeble, Conquedle, — 
A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle, — 
Crying, '• Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bob- 
olincon, 
Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups ! 
I knpw the sauc_y chap, I see his shining cap 
Bobbing in the clover there, — see, see, see ! " 

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apjjle-tree, 
Startled by his rivaFs song, quickened by his 

railleiy ; 
Soon he spies the rogue afloat, cm-vetting in the air, 
And merrilj' he turns about, and warns him to 

beware ! 
" 'Tis you that v^'ould a-wooing go, down among the 

rushes ! 



But wait a week, till flowers are cheery, — v.ait a 

week, and, ere you marry, 
Be sure of a house A\^herein to tarry! 
"NVadolink, Whiskodink. Tom Denny, A\iiit, wait, 

Avait! " 

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little 

mellow ; 
Follow, follow, follow, follow, o er the hill and in the 

holloA^' ! 
Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and 

now they fly ; 
They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the 

middle, and wheel about, — 
With a "Phew, shew,Wadolincon! listen to me, Bob- 
olincon ! — 
Happy's the wooing that's speedil^^ doing, that's 

speedilj' doing. 
That's meny and OAer -with the bloom of the clover! 
Bobolincon, Wadolincon, "Winterseeble, follow, follow 

me!'' 

Wilson Flagg. 




SOLITUDE OF THE SEA. 



. n07-r^ 



|HEEE is a rapture on the lonely' shore, 
,- - -I There is society', where none intrudes, 
''W^ By the deep sea, and nmsic in its roar: 
•fi I love not man the less, l»ut nature more, 



From these our interviews, in AAhich I steal 
From all I maybe, or have been before. 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
"\ATiat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Lord Byron. 



GLIMPSES OF ITATIIRE. 



239 



SUMMER, DROUGHT. 



tI^P^ 



^HEi!^ winter came the land was lean and sere, 
H^® There fell no snow, and oft from wild and 
■7^^ field 

ij In famished tanieness came the drooping deer, 
And licked the waste about the troughs 
congealed. 

And though at spring we plowed ajid proffered seed, 
It lay ungermed, a pillage for the birds; 

And unto one low dam, in urgent need, 
We daily drove the suppliant lowing herds. 

But now the iields to barren wastes have run. 
The dam a pool of oozing greenery lies, 

"Where knots of gnats hang reeling in the sun 
Till early dusk, when tilt the dragon-flies. 



Yet ere the noon, as brass the heaven turns. 
The cruel sun smites with unerring aim. 

The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns. 
And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame ! 

On either side the shoe-deep dusted lane 
The meagre wisps of fennel scorch to wire : 

Slow lags the team that drags an empty wain, 
And, creaking dry, a wheel runs off its tire. 

No flock upon the naked pasture feeds, 
JSTo blithesome "Bob-White " whistles from the 
fence ; 

A gust runs crackling through the brittle weeds, 
And heat and silence seem the more intense! 




■ A pillage for the birds." 



All night the craw-fish deeper digs her wells, 
As shows the clay that freshly curbs them round; 

And many a random upheaved tunnel tells 
Where ran the mole across the fallow ground. 

But ah, the stone-dmnb dullness of the dawn. 
When e'en the cocks too listless are to crow. 

And lies the world as from all life withdrawn. 
Unheeding and outworn and swooning low ! 

There is no dew on any greenness shed. 
The hard-baked earth is split along the walks, 

The very burs in stunted clumps are dead, 
And mullein-leaves drop withered from the stalks. 



On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high, 
Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no 
more: 

The strident shrilling of a locust nigh 
Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before. 

]Sro transient clovid o'erskims with flakes of shade 
The landscape hazed in dizz.y gleams of heat; 

A dove's wing glances like a parried blade. 
And western walls the beams in torrents beat. 

So burning, low and lower still the sun. 
In fierce white fervor, sinks anon from sight. 

And so the dread, despairing day is done. 
And dumbly broods again the haggard night! 

J. P. Irvike. 



240 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 







"The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o'er the -wide and "winding Rhine.' 



THE RHINE. 



MBEE castled crag of Drachenfels 

Frowns o'er the ^vide and winding Rhine. 
\\1iose breast of waters Ijroadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the \-ine, 
And hill all rich with blossomed trees. 

And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scattered cities crowning these. 

Whose far white ■« alls along them shine, 
Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
AVith double joy wert thou with me. 



And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers. 
Walk smiling o"er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. 

And many a rock which steeply lowers. 
And noble arch in proud decay. 

Look o'er this vale of \'intage-bowers : 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine 



GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 



241 



I send the lilies given to nie : 

Though long before thy hand they touch 
1 know that they must withered be. 

But yet i'ejeet them not as such; 
For I have cherished them as dear, 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 

When thou hehold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
And offered from my heart to thine ! 



The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
jSTor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 
CoiUd thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine. 

LoKD Byron. 




TO A MOUNTAIN OAK. 



|R0UD mountain giant, whose majestic face, 
p From thy high watch-toN\'er on the steadfast 
rock, 
Looks calmly o'er the trees that thi'ong thy base. 
How long hast thou withstood the tempest's 
shock? 



How long hast thou looked down on yonder vale, 

Sleeping in sun before thee ; 
Or bent thy ruffled brow to let the gale 

Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee? 
George Henry Boker. 



|HERE is a serene and settled majesty in forest scenery that enters into the soul, and 

dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations. The ancient and hered- 

'^^f^ itary groves, too, which everywhere abound, are most of them full of story. They 

J>i are haunted by the recollections of the great spirits of past ages who have sought 

relaxation anione; them from the tumult of arms or the toils of state, or have wooed the 

muse beneath their shade. 



242 



THE GOLDElN TREASUEY. 



FOREST PICTURES. 



GRACIOUS breath of sunrise! dhine air! 

That brood'st serenely o"er the piu-pling hills : 
O blissful valley! nestling, cool and fair. 

In the fond arms of yonder niurmiu-ous rills. 



The fitful breezes, fraught with forest balm, 
Faint, in rare wafts of perfume, on my brow: 

The woven lights and shadows, rife with calm. 

Creep slant\Nise "twixt the foliage, bough on bough 




" O blissful valley ! nestling-, cool and fair, 
In the fond arms of yonder murmurous rills.' 



Breathing their grateful measures to the sun ; 
O dew-besprinkled paths, that circling run 
Through sylvan shades and solemn silences. 
Once more ye bring my fevered spirit peace ! 



Uplifted heavenward, like a verdant cloud 
^^■^^ose rain is music, soft as love, or loud 
With jubilant hope. — for there, enti-anced. apart, 
The mock-bird sings, close, close to Xature's heart. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



243 



Shy forms about the greenery, out and in, 
Flit 'neath the broadening glories of the morn ; 

The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequin — 
Mounts the taU trunks; while swift as lightning, 
born 



The deer-hound's voice, sweet as the golden bell's. 

Prolonged by flying echoes round the dells. 

And up the loftiest summits wildly borne, 

Blent with the blast of some keen huntsman's horn. 




" The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequ 



Of summer mists, from tangled vine and tree 
Dart the dove's pinions, pulsing vividly 
Down the dense glades, till glimmering far and gray 
The dusky vision softly melts away ! 

In transient, pleased bewilderment, I mark 
The last dim shimmer of those lessening wings. 

When from lone copse and shadowy covert, hark ! 
What mellow tongue through all the woodland 



And now the checkered vale is left behind; 

I climb the slope, and reach the hill-top bright; 
Here, in bold freedom, swells a sovereign wind, 

"VVTiose gusty prowess sweeps the pine-clad height; 
While the pines. — dreamy Titans roused from sleep,— 
Answer with mighty voices, deep on deep 
Of wakened foliage surging like a sea ; 
And o'er them smiles Heaven's calm infinity! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



FLOWERS. 



|E valleys low, where the mild whispers rise 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 

brooks 
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks ; 
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers. 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 



Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 

The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose, and the well-attii-ed woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 

And every flo^^'er that sad embroidery wears. 

John Milton. 



244 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 




Oft hd\H r \\ iIUl i Ihe e \ < ndl iiul i iths. 



Gl.IMrSP:S OF NATl'KE. 



245 



UNDER THE LEAVES. 



pfeT have 1 walked these woodland paths, 



<iiP Without the blest foreknowing 
ji|i That underneath the withered leaves 
i The fairest buds were growing. 

To-day the south wind sweeps away 
The types of autumn's splendor, 

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, 
Spring's children, pure and tender. 



O prophet-tlowersi — with iii)s of bloom, 

Out-vyiug in your beauty 
The pearly tints of ocean shells, — 

Ye teach me faith and duty ! 

"Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to saj', 
" With love's divine foreknowing. 

That where man sees but withered leaves. 
God sees sweet flowers growing." 

Albert Laighton. 




WINTER. 



WINTEE, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled. 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 
snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its slippeiy way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
16 



And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease. 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought. 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I cro\^^l thee king of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the houis 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

William Oowper, 



246 



THE GOLDEN" TEEASUEY. 



THE FLOWER'S NAME. 



pEEE'S the garden she walked across, 
i^ Ai'in iu my arm, such a short while since : 
Hark ! now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. 
She must have reached the shrub ere she turned, 
As hack with that murmur the wicket s\\-uug; 
For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spm-ued. 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Do\\Ti this side of the gravel- walk 

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Eoses, ranged in valiant roAV, 

I will never think that she passed you by ! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know; 

But j^onder see where the rock-plants lie ! 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, — 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; 
Till she gave me. \vith pride to make no slip, 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
"VATiat a name! was it love or praise? 

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? 
I must learn Spanish one of these daj's, 

Onlv for that slow sweet name's sake. 



Eoses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her one of these da5'S, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, — 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. 
But do not detain me now, for she lingers 

There, like a sunshine over the ground; 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard! look that j'ou grow not, — 

Stay as you are, and be loved forever! 
Bud, if I kiss j'ou, 'tis that you blow not, — 

Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! 
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they tui-n, and do%vn they nestle : 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen? 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

AYhither I follow her, beauties flee. 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? 
Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces ; 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : 
Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — 

Eoses, you are not so fair, after all ! 

EOBEKT Browning. 



SPRING IN CAROLINA. 



j^FEIXG, with that nameless pathos in the air 
^^'- Which dwells with all things fau\ 

Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain. 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of eveiy forest tree 
The blood is all aglee. 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers. 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on ever}' side we trace the bund 
Of winter in the land. 

Save where the maple I'cddens on the lawn. 
Flushed by the season's dawn; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind. 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn. 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the tui-f is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 



A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst theu- tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 

The crocus breaking earth ; 

And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass. 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating bj', 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start. 
If from a beech '-s heart 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say. 
" Behold mc ! I am May ! " 

* * * 

Henry Timkou. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



247 



THE LARK. 



*eT,*&:^ 



pSKO ! here the gentle lark, wearj^ of rest, 
WS From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, 
5fe|\ And wakes the morning, from whose silver 



breast 



The sun ariseth in his majestj'; 

Who doth the world so gloriously behold. 

That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. 

William Shakespeark. 




GRIZZLY 



JBIOWARD, of heroic size, 
1^ In whose lazy muscles lies 

I Strength we fear, and yet despise; 

^ Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 

Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 



O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; 
"Whiskered chin, and feeble nose, 
Claws of steel, on baby toes. — 
Here, in solitude and shade. 
Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade. 
Be thy courses undismayed ! 



248 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY 



Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
Let thy rude, half -human tread 

Point to hiddeu Indian springs. 
Lost in fern and fragrant grasses 

Hovered o'er by timid wings. 
Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets — 
Epicui'ean retreats, 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 



In thy fat-jowled deviltiy. 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou may'st levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou Shalt spi'ead the \\oodland rheer. 
From the pilgrim taking toll; 

Match thy cunning with his fear. 
Eat and drink and have thy till ; 
Yet remain au outlaw still! 

Bket Harte. 



-^^-Ssi- 



THE VIOLET. 






FAINT, delicious spring-time violet! 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Tm'ns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sori'ow free. 



The breath of distant fields upon my brow- 
Blows through that open door 

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low 
And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour. 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace. 

Like grapes above a bower. 



A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lai-k sings o'er my head, 
Di-owned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass! 

I would that I were dead ! — 

AVliy hast thou opened that forbidden door, 

From which I ever flee? 
O vanished joy! O love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet ! thy odor through my brain . 

Hath searched and stung to grief 
This sunny day, as if a curse did stsiin 

Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmore Story. 



CALM AND STORM ON LAKE LEMAN. 



a^LEAR. placid Leman ! thy coufi-asted lake, 
ll§ With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
"^ \Vhich warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice repi-oved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, j-et clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 



There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: 

***** 

Tlie sky is changed! — and such a change! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
Y'et lovely in yom- strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And .Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

Lord Byron. 



FREEDOM OF NATURE. 



OA RE not, Fortune, what you me deny : 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; 
Y"ou cannot shut the windows of the sky. 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening 
face ; 



Y''ou cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. 
And I their toys to the great children leave; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

James Thom.son. 



GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 



249 



THREE SUMMER STUDIES. 



...^ MORNING. 

M||HE cock hath crowed. I hear the doors un- 
J^ barred; 

®7i||^ Down to the grass-grown porch my way I 
[J take, 

And hear, beside the well within the yard, 
Full many an ancient quacking, splashing 
drake. 



The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, 
Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. 

A humid polish is on all the leaves, — 
The birds tlit in and out with varied notes, 

The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, 
A partridge whistle through the garden floats. 

While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, 

As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 




' The noisv swallows twitter 'neath the eaves." 



And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen, — all 
Eesponding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 

The dew is thick upon the velvet grass. 
The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops. 

And as the cattle from the enclosure ps'.ss. 
Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops 



Up comes the sun! Through the dense leaves a spot 
Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze 

Which late made leafy music, dies; the day grows hot. 
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees; 

The burnished river like a sword-blade sliines. 

Save where 'tis shadowed by the solemn pines. 



250 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 




GLIMPSES OF XATURE. 



251 



NOON. 

Over the farm is brooding silence no^^■, — 
No reaper's soug, no raven's clangor harsh, 

No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow. 
No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh. 

No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows, — 

The scene is steeped in silence and repose. 

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — 

The panting cattle in the river stand, 
Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields. 

It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land ; 
So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, 
I pause and listen for some faint church-bell. 

The leaves are motionless, the song-bu-ds mute ; 

The very air seems somnolent and sick : 
The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit 

Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, 
"While now and then a mellow apple falls 
With a dull thud within the orchard's walls. 

The sky has but one solitary cloud ' 

Like a dark island in a sea of ligh^,, 
The parching fm-rows 'tsvixt the corn-rows ploughed 

Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight. 
While over yonder road a dusty haze 
Grows luminous beneath the sim's fierce blaze. 

EVENING. 

That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, 
While distant thunder rumbles in the air, — 



A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide, — 

The lazy cattle are no longer there. 
But homeward come, in long procession slow. 
With many a bleat and manj' a plaintive low. 

Darker and wider spreading o'er the west 
Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, 

And mirrored turrets on the river's breast. 
Tell in advance the coming of a storm, — 

Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash. 

And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. 

The air of evening is intensely hot, 
The breeze feels heated as it fans my bi'ows, — 

Now sullen rain-drops i^atter down like shot, 
Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. 

A sultry lull, and then a gust again, — 

And now I see the thick advancing rain ! 

It fairly hisses as it drives along. 

And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spraj' 

As if 't were dancing to the fitful song- 
Made by the trees, which twist themselves and swaj'' 

In contest with the wind, that rises fast 

Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. 

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled. 
The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west. 

In massive shadow tipped with pm-p]ish red. 
Crimson, or gold. The scene is one of rest; 

And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 

I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 

James Barkon Hope. 




"And on the bosom of yon still lagfoon 
I see the crescent of the pallid moon." 



5CL^ 



IMAGINATIVE SYMPATHY WITH NATIJBE. 



^PKY, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, 
^P With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
JL To make these felt and feeling, -well may be 
I Things that have made me watchful; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 



Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? 
Are ye like those -SNithin the human breast? 
Oi- do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? 

Lord Byron. 



252 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



^A. -J^ 




SEPTEMBER. 

|i(|lWEET is the voice that caUs 
i^P From bahblino- -waterfalls 
X In meadows where the downy seeds 
f are flying; 

I And soft the breezes blow. 

And eddying- come and go 
In faded gardens where the rose is 
dying. 

Among the stiibbled corn 

The blithe quail pipes at morn, 
The merry partridge drmiis in hidden places, 

And glittering insects gleam 

Above the reedy stream, 
"WTiere busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 

At eve, cool shadows fall 

Across the garden wall, 
And ou the clustered grapes to purple turning; 

And pearlj^ vapors lie 

Along the eastern slc\'. 
Where the broad harvest-moon is redlv burning. 



Ah. soon on field and hill 

The vnnd shall whistle chill. 
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together. 

To fly from fi'ost and snow. 

And seek for lands where blow 
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 

The cricket chirps all day, 

"O fairest summer, stay! " 
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning ; 

Tlie wild fowl fly afar 

Above the foamy bar. 
And liasten southward ere the skies arc frowi'inir. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



253 



Now comes a fragriiiit breeze 

Through the dark cedar-trees, 
Aud round about my temples fondly lingers, 

lu gentle playfulness, 

Like to the soft caress 
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 



Yet, though a sense of grief 

Comes with the falling leaf, 
And memory makes the summer doublj' jileasaut, 

In all my autumn dreams 

A future summer gleams, 
Passing the fairest glories of the present I 

George Aknold. 




FLOWEES. 



ip WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
e^ "Whose head is turned by the sun: 
"^^ The tulip is a courtly queen. 
I "Wliom, therefore, I will shun : 
I The cowslip is a country wench. 

The violet is a nun ; — 
But I will woo the daintj^ rose. 
The queen of every one. 

The j)ea is but a wanton witch. 
In too much haste to wed, 

And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
The wolfsbane I should dread ; 



Nor will I dreary roseniarye. 

That always mourns the dead ; 
But I will woo the dainty rose. 

With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint. 

And so is no mate for me ; 
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 

She is of such low degree ; 
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves : 

And the broom's betrothed to the bee: 
But I will plight with the dainty rose. 

For fairest of all is she. 

Thomas Hood. 



STARS. 



I^E stars! which are the poetry of heaven, 
*-""' If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven 
That in otn- aspirations to be great 
Oiu- destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 



And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love aud reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named tlieui- 
selves a stai-. 

lyORD Byron. 



254 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 




'The hollow winds begin to blow. 



SIGNS OF RAIN. 



^piE hollOAV \\-lncls begin to blow ; 

The clouds look black, the glass is low, 
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 
And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 
Last night the sun Avent pale to bed. 

The moon in bales bid her head ; 

The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 

For see, a rainbow spans the sky ! 

The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 

Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 

Hark ho\\- the chairs and tables crack ! 

Old Bettj''s nen'es are on the rack ; 



Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks crj^, 
The distant hills are seeming nigh. 
How restless are the snorting SA\ine! 
The busy flies disturb the kine. 
Low o'er the grass the swalloA\' wings. 
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings! 
Pnss on the hearth, with A^elvet paA\'S, 
Sits wiping o"er her whiskered jaws; 
Through the clear streams the fishes rise, 
And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 
The glow-worms, numerous and light, 
niumed the de\\-y dell last night ; 



GLBIPSES OF NATUEE. 



255 



At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
Hopping and crawling o'er the green; 
The whirling dust the wind obeys, 
And in the rapid eddy plays ; 
The frog has changed his yellow vest. 
And in a russet coat is dressed. 
Though June, the air is cold and still. 
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill; 



My dog, so altered in his taste. 

Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast ; 

And see yon rooks, how odd their flight! 

They imitate the gliding kite, 

And seem precipitate to fall, 

As if they felt the piercing ball. 

'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow. 

Our jaunt must be put off to-moiTow. 

Edward Jenner. 




' Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow." 



DAFFODIL^. 



WANDEEED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales anr? hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils. 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightty dance. 



The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company; 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie. 

In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward ej^e 

AMiicli is the bliss of solitude; 
And then mj^ heart with ifleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

AViLLiAM Wordsworth. 



25(3 



THE GOLDEN TEEASIRY. 



SONNET ON THE RIVER RHINE. 



?WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's 
i^ brow 

^jiV (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) 
m Sti-eamed the blue light, when on the sparkUng 

Ehiue 
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
In nuirniurs parted. Varying as we go. 
Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire, 



Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despau-, 
Frowns the bleak cliff ; there on the woodland's side 
The shadowy sunshine i^ours its streaming tide ; 
AMiile Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair. 
Would wish to linger many a summer's day. 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 

William Lisle Bowles. 




" Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, 
Frowns the bleak clitf." 



|1N itself the ocean panorama is very grand. It would be hard to exaggerate the beauty 
11 of both sea and sky, especially in^ind near the tropics. The sky near the horizon 
was of pale blue, and often the clouds all round the sea line of a light pink tint, and the 
sea near the ship like an amethyst or the wing of some tropical bird. In those rare times 
when the sea was calm, the motion of the ship made it flow in large sheets as of some oily 
li(|uid: or, a^ain, like the blue steel of some polished cuirass. 



GLIMPSES OF XATUEE. 



257 



TO THE CUCKOO. 



iJj^pAlL, heauteons sti-anger of the grove ! 
i^^ Thou iiiesseuger of spring I 
■*^$>^ Xow Heaveu repairs thj' rural seat, 
? And woods thj' welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant ! A\ith thee 

I hail the time of flowers. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 
To pull the primrose gay, 



Starts, thy most curious voice to hear. 
And imitates thj' laj-. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 
An annual guest in other lands. 

Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird! thj^ bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year! 

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 

We"d make, with joyful wing, 
Om- annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the spring. 

John Logan. 




MARCH. 



^LAYER of winter, art thou here again? 

O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh ! 

The bitter wind makes not thy victoiy vain, 
; i' Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 

Welcome, O March I whose kindly days and dry 
Make April ready for the throstle's song. 
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! 

Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise. 
Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise. 



Unmindful of the past or coming daj^s; 
Who sing, " O joy! a new year is begun! 
What happiness to look upon the sun ! " 

O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss. 

But Death himself, who, crying solemnly. 

Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, 

Bids us, '-Eejoice! lest pleasureless ye die. 

Within a little time must ye go by. 

Stretch forth your open hands, and. while ye live, 

Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." 

AVlLLIAM MOKKIS. 



258 



THE GOLDEN^ TREASURY. 




THE SHADED AVATER. 



f HEX that my mood is sad, and in tlie noise 



And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, 
I tm-n my footsteps from its hollow joys 

And sit me down beside this little brook; 
The waters have a music to mine ear 

It glads me much to hear. 



It is a quiet glen, as you may see, 

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, 

That spread their giant branches, broad and 
free, 
The silent growth of many centuries ; 

And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, 
A sabbath of the woods. 



A gracious couch — the root of an old oak 
"WTiose branches j-ield it moss and canopy — 

Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
Secure, shall never be resigned bj' me; 

It hangs above the stream that idly flies, 
Heedless of any eyes. 

There, with eye sometimes shut, but irpward bent, 
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour 

While every sense on earnest mission sent. 
Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom and 
flower ; 

Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, 
A profitable toil. 




" It is a quiet glen, as vou may see, 
Shut in from all intrusion bv the trees." 



Few know its quiet shelter. — none, like me, 
Do seek it out vrith such a fond desire, 

Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree. 
And listening as the voiceless leaves respire. — 

■\\Tien the far-ti"aveling breeze, done wandering. 
Rests here his weary wing. 

And all the day. with fancies ever new, 

And s\\'eet comj^anions from their boundless store, 

Of merry elves bespangled all with dew. 
Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, 

Watching their wild but unobti'usive play, 
I flino; the hours awav. 



And still the waters, trickling at my feet, 
TTind on their way with gentlest melody, 

Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, 
Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— 

Yet not so rudelj- as to send one sound 
Through the thick copse around. 

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, 

Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed 
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries. — 

And with awakened vision upwaid bent. 
I watch the firmament. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



259 



How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — 
Life's sanctuary at last, seciu-e from storm — 

To the pure waters ti-iekliug at my feet 
The bending trees that overshade my form ! 

So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
Like those of which we dream. 



Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 

The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, 
Sails far into the blue that spreads on hio-h. 

Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 
With a most lofty discontent to fly 

Upward, from earth to sky. 

William Gilmore Simms. 




*' And tlie o;aunt woods, in ra^^ed, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs \vith sombre ivy-twine." 



NOVEMBER. 



|HE mellow year is hasting to its close ; 
_ EM The little birds have almost sung their last, 
^f^ Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast - 
J-l That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ;- 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose. 
Oft with the Morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed. 
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
And makes a little summer where it grows : — 



In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define. 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array. 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



^pT seems as if it were Nature's ain Sabbath, and the verra waters were at rest. Look 
tffSt, down upon the vale profound, and the stream is without motion ! No doubt, if you 
were walking along the bank, it would be murmuring with your feet. But here — here up 
amang the hills, we can imagine it asleep, even like the well within reach of my staff. 



•2G0 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



THE SEA IX CALM AXD STORM. 



^AEIOUS and vast, sublime in all its forms, 
^^^leu lulled by zephyrs, or wheu roused by 

storms ; 
Its colors changing, when fiom clouds and sun 
Shades after shades upon the siu-face run ; 
Embrowned and horrid now. and now serene 
In limpid blue and evanescent green; 
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie, 
Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye '. 

Be it the summer noon; a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
Light, twinkling sti'eams in bright confusion move; 
(For. heated thus, the warmer air ascends. 
And ^\ith the cooler in its fall contends) . 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion : swelling as it sleeps. 
Theu slowly sinking: curling to the sti-and. 
Faint, lazy waves o"ercreep the ridgy sand. 



Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
-\nd back return in silence, smooth and 



:low. 




" Ships in the calm seem anchored : for thev glide 
On the still sea, ui^ed solely by the tide." 




-Tt-e petrel, in the trnnhled wav. 

; 'v;;'! her brood, or flutters in the spraj'. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



261 



Ships ill the oalm seem anchored; for they glide 
Oil the still sea, urged solely by the tide. 

******* 

View now the winter storm! Above, one cloud. 
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud; 
The unwieldy porpoise, through the day before. 
Had rolled in view of boding men on shore ; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form. 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 



Eaking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. 

Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way. 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ; 
She rises often, often drops again. 
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks 
stretch ; 




-Their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge." 



All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change — the waves, so swelled and steep. 
Breaking and sinking and the sunken swells. 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace. 
As if contending in their watery chase; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch; 
Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, 
And then, reflowing, take their grating course, 
17 



Far as the eye can glance on either side. 
In a broad space and level line they glide ; 
All in their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; 
Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly 
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply. 
While to the storm they give their weak, complain- 
ing cry; 
Or clap the sleek whit« pinion to the breast. 
And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 

Geouge Crabbe. 



2G2 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BTJIIN. 



;HE midges dance aboon the burn; 

The dews begin to fa" ; 
The pairtricks down the rushy holm 

Set up their e'eniug ca". 
'Now loud and clear the blackbirds sang 

Rings through the briery sha\\-, 
While, flitting gay, the swallows play 

Around the castle wa". 

Beneath the golden gloamin" sky 

The mavis mends her lay ; 
ITie redbreast pours his sweetest strains 

To charm the lingering day ; 



While weary yeldrins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn. 
The merry wren, frae deu to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The fox-glove shuts its bell ; 
The houej-suckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others cro%\'d the giddy court 

Of mirth and reveh-y. 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 

Robert Tannahill. 



NATURE'S DELIGHTS. 



MAKER of sweet poets ! dear delight 
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 
'.•f" Spaugler of clouds, halo of crj^stal rivers. 
]{ Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling 
1 streams ; 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; 
Lover of loneliness and wandering. 
Of upcast eye and tender pondering! — 
Thee must I praise above all other glories 
That smile on us to tell delightful stories; 
For what has made the sage or i^oet write. 
But the fair paradise of Natui-e's light? 
In the calm grandeur of a sober line 
We see the waving of the moimtain pine ; 



And when a tale is beautifully staid. 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; 

AMien it is moving on luxurious wings. 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; 

Fair dewy roses brush against om* faces. 

And flowering laurels spring fi'om diamond vases; 

Overhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier. 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; 

While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles; 

So that we feel uplifted from the world. 

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled 

John Keats. 



HAH VEST TIME. 



||')l|'ER all the land, a vision rare and splendid — 
%m^ (What time the summer her last glory yields !) 
\:[i:/ I saw the reapers. b_y tall wains attended, 
Wi* Wave their keen scythes across the rijiened 
fields ; 
At each broad sweep the glittering grain-stalks parted. 

With all their sunniest lustres earthward bowed. 
But still those tireless blade-cui-ves flashed and darted 
Like silvery lightnings from a golden cloud. 

Then burst from countless throats in choral thunder 

A strain that rose toward the sapphire dome: — 
Hushed in his lay. the mock-bird heard \\ith wonder 

The resonant gladness of their -'nan-est Home," 
And Echo to far fells and foiest fountains 

Bore the brave burden that was half divine, 
A\Tiile the proud crested eagle of the mountains 

Sent back an answer from his eyried pine. 



And still, the tireless steel gleamed in and over 

The bearded cohorts of the lye and wheat. 
Till in long swathes, overtopped by perfumed 
clover. 

They slept supinely at the laborer's feet; 
And still that harvest song rolled on, till even 

Looked wanly forth from nighfs encircling bars. — 
AVTien, like a pearl of music, lost in Heaven 

Its sweetness melted in a sea of stars. 

O favored land ! thv bm-sting barns arc laden 

With such fair offspring of thine opulent sod, 
At length thou art a rich Arcadian Adenne, 

Lapped in the bounteous benison of God. 
Pomona vies with Ceres ; but less sober. 

Trips down her orchard \\a.vs at gleeful ease. 
And in the luminous sunsets of October, 

Shakes the flushed fruitage from her rustling trees. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



263 



And far as fancy's kindling eyes can follow 

The harvest-landscapes in their hale increase. 
O'er radiant hill-top, and through shadowy hollow, 

Gleams the white splendor of the Plant of Peace. 
Its bolls, wind-wafted on their airy stations. 

Hold spells of subtlest service, deftly furled — 
Soon to unfold through marvellous transformations, 

And weave their warmth and comfort 'round the 
world ! 

Ah ! Christ be praised ; where once o'er wold and 
vvatei- 

Flashed back the fury of war's blood-red glare — 
Where once the shrieks of fratricidal slaughter 

Died shuddering on the hot, volcanian air — 



Only the breeze, in frolic charge, advances. 
To stir the tides, or win the foliaged pass; 

The simbeams only smite with wavering lances 
The frail battalions of the leaves and grass! 

Then let our hearts — "ere grateful fervor falters — 

To Him, whose love fulfills all pure desire, 
Upwaft, as borne from bright, ethei-eal altars, 

The glow and grace of sacrificial fire. 
For Plenty smiles alike on cot and palace. 

And Peace, so long to us an unknown guest. 
Pours from the depths of her enchanted chalice 

Tliat heavenly wine which brings the natioas rest! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



-^-^-^■i 



THE EVENING WIND. 



^MpIEIT that breathest through my lattice : thou 
^M That coolest the twilight of the sultry day ! 
v|^ Gratef ullj' fiows thy freshness round my brow ; 
W Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. 
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their 
spray. 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 



Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest; 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars ; and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting ttowei'. and darkling waters pass, 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the 
grass. 




" Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Ridino; all dav the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughenina: their crests, and scattering high their spray, 
And swelling the white sail." 



Nor I alone. — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 

.\iid languishing to hear thy welcome sound. 
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade: go forth. — 

Ciod's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! 



Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage Ijy the gleaming stone. 

That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 

May think of gentle souls that passed away, 
Tiike thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men. 

And gfoiK' into the boundless lioriven amiiii. 



2(54 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee : thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy \isit, grateful to his burning brow. 



Go, — but the circle of eternal change, 
WTiich is the life of Nature, shall restore. 

With sounds and scents from all thy mightj^ range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and sti-ange. 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




" ^\'here the g-iraffes browse 

With stately head, .among the forest bovighs." 



NATURE'S MAGNIFICENCE. 



jj^^HERE the stupendous mountains of the moon 
%iE-lM Cast their broad shadows o"er the realms of 
%^Zk.^^ noon; 

"'-.T.-^^ From rude Caff raria. where the giraffes browse 
With stately heads among tlie forest boughs. 
To Atlas, where Xumidian lions glow 
AVith torrid tire beneath eternal snow ; 



From Nubian hills that hail the da\\Ti of day, 
To Guinea's coast, where evening fades away; 
Regions immense, unsearchable, unknown, 
Bask in the splendor of the solar zone. — 
A world of wonders, where creation seems 
No more the works of Nature, but her dreams. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



2()5 



Great, wild and beautiful, bej^ond control, 

She reigns in all the freedom of her soul ; 

Where none can check her bounty when she showers 

O'er the gay wilderness her fruits and flowers; 

None brave her fury when, with whirlwind breatli 

And earthquake step, she walks abroad with death. 

O'er boundless i:)lains she holds her flery flight. 

In terrible magniflcence of light; 

At blazing noon pursues the evening breeze. 

Through the dim gloom of realm-o'ershadowiug trees ; 



Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells. 

Or bathes in secresy where Niger swells, 

An inland ocean, on whose jasper rocks 

AVith shells and sea-flower wreaths she binds her 

locks. 
She sleeps on isles of velvet verdure, placed 
Midst sandy gulphs and shoals foj- ever waste; 
She guides her countless flocks to cherished }ills, 
And feeds her cattle on a thousand hills. 

James Montgomery. 




' Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells.' 



-^'S'5 



^^IP down upon the northern shore, 
6^# O sweet new year, delaying long . 
^W^ Thou doest expectant Nature wrong; 
J4 Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 



SPRING. 



Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fieiy dew, 

Laburnums, dropping wells of fire. 

O thou, new year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood. 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat \\ith song. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



-^^-H5^ 



IHE SKY — sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same 
for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its 
tenderness, almost divine in its infinity— its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct 
as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal, is essential. 



266 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



IT SXOWS. 



ipT snows! " cries tlie School-boy, '• Hurrah I " and 
1^ his sliout 

X Is ringing througli parlor and hall, 
; ^Vhile swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, 
I And his playmates have answered his call ; 

It malces the heart leap but to witness then- joy; 
Pr:)ud wealtli has no pleasure, I trow, 
Lilcc the rapture that throbs iu the pulse of the hoy, 

As he gathers his treasures of snow; 
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
AVhile health, and the riches of natiu-e, are theii'S. 



And nearer and nearer his soft cushioned chair 
Is wheeled toward the life-giving tlame ; 

He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air, 
Lest it wither his delicate frame ; 

Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give, 

>Vhen the fear we shall die only proves that we live! 

''It snows! '' cries the Traveler, '■ Ho! " and the word 
Has (piickened his steed's lagging pace ; 

The A\ind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, 
Unf elt the sharp drift iu his face ; 




" Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, 
Like the rapture that throhs in the pulse ^t the ho}', 
As he gathers his treasures of snow." 



" It snows! " sighs the Imbecile, '-Ah!" aud his 
breath 

Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : 
"S\1iile, from the pale aspect of nature iu death 

lie tm-ns to the blaze of his grate; 



For bright through the tempest his own home 
appeared, 
Ay, through leagues intervened lie can see ; 
There's the clear, glowing hearth, aud the table 
prepared. 
And his wife with her babes at her knee; 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



267 



Blest thought ! how it lightens the grief-laden hour, 
That those we love dearest are safe from its power ! 

" It snows! " cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky! " and 
turns 
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek 
burns, 
"While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : 
There are visions of conquests, of splendor, aud 
mirth, 
Floating over each drear winter's day ; 
But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth, 
Will melt like the snow-flakes away : 



Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; 
That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. 

"It snows! " cries the Widow, "Oh God! '' aud her 
sighs 
Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
Its burden you'll read, in her tear-swollen eyes. 

On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 
'Tis night, aud her fatherless ask her for bread, 
But " He gives the young ravens their food," 
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to 
dread. 
And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows; 
'Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows ! 

Mrs. S. J. Hale. 



-4.- 



-a^5 




"Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, 
And every billow was his mirror splendid 1 



SUNRISE AT SEA. 




^HEN the mild weather came, 
^- And set the sea on flame. 

How often would I rise before the sun. 

And from the mast behold 
The gradual splendors of the sky unfold 
Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, 
Above the hoiuzon's arc. 

To show its flaming gold. 
Across the purple dark ! 

One perfect dawn how well I locollect, 
"When the whole east was flecked 
With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst, 
"Wliile a light crimson mist 



Went up before the mounting liuninaiy, 
And all the strips of cloud began to vary 
Their hues, aud all the zenith seemed to ope 
As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! 

How reverentlj' calm the ocean lay 

At the bright birth of that celestial day! 

How every little vapor, robed in state, 

Would melt and dissipate 
Before the augmenting ray. 

Till the victorious Orb rose unattended. 

And every billow was his mirror splendid ! 

Ei'ES Sargent. 



2(58 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



THE EAIKBOW 



sMKILTklPHAL arch, that fiU'st the sky 

^^ When storms prepare to j^art, 
Vi4 I ask not proud Philosophj' 
M To teach me what thou art. 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that optics teach unfold 

Thy form to please me so, 
As Mhen I dreamed of gems and gold 

Hid in thj' radiant bow? 

When Science from creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws! 

And yet, fair how. no fabling dreams. 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's grey fathers forth. 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O'er mountains yet untrod, 



Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thyjubilee to keep. 

The first-made anthem i-aug 
On earth, delivered from the deep, 

And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 

Uuraptured greet thy beam : 
Theme of primeval prophecy, 

Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 

The lark thy welcome sings, 
When, glittering in the freshened fields. 

The sno^^'y mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town. 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in you horizon dark. 

As young thy beauties seem. 
As when the eagle from the Ark 

First sported in thj' beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 

Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
Nor lets the tj^je grow pale with age 

That first spoke peace to man. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE SONG-SPARROW. 



Close beside ray garden gate. 
AVTiere, so light, from post to thicket, 

Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; 
Wio, with meekly folded wing, 
Comes to sun himself and sing. 

It was there, perhaps, last year. 

That his little house he built; 

For he seems to perk and peer. 

And to twitter, too, and tilt 

The bare branches in between. 

With a fond, familiar mien. 

Once, I know, there was a nest. 

Held there by the sideward thrust 
Of those twigs that toncli his breast; 
Though 'tis gone now. Some i-nde gust 
Caught it, over-full of snow. — 
Bent the bush, — and robbed it so. 



ITius our highest holds are lost. 

By the ruthless winter's \\ind, 
AMien, with swift-dismantling frost, 

The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd 

Of their leafage, grow too cold 
For frail hopes of summer's mold. 

But if we, with spring-days mellow. 
Wake to woeful wrecks of change. 
And the sparrow's ritoruello 
Scaling still its old sweet range ; 
Can we do a better thing 
Than, with him, still build and sing? 

Oh. my sparrow, thou dost breed 

Tliought in me beyond all telling; 
Shootest through me sunlight, seed. 
And fruitful blessing, with that welling 
Ripple of ecstatic rest. 
Gurgling ever from thy breast. 

George Paksons Lathrop. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



2()9 



INVOCATION TO NATURE. 



I^AETH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood! 

If our great mother have imbued luy soul 
"^y With aught of uatural piety to feel 

f Your love, aud recompeuse the boon with 

1 raiue ; 

If de^vy mora, and odorous noon, and even, 
With sunset aud its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; 
If Autumn's hoUow sighs in the sere wood, 



And Winter robing with pure snow and erowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare bougiis ; 
If Spring's voluptuous pautings, when she breathes 
Her tii-st sweet kisses, have been deaj- to me ; 
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still loved 
Aud cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive 
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 
^ No portion of your wonted favor now I 

Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 




TABLE MOUNTAIN, CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. 



agjAPE of storms, thy spectre fled, 

IfH See, the angel Hope, instead, 

/|k Lights from heaven upon thine head; — 

And where Table-mountain stands ; 
Barbarous hordes from desert sands. 
Bless the sight with lilted hands. 



St. Helena's dungeon-keep 
Sco\\ls defiance o'er the deep; 
There a warrior's relics sleep. 

Who he was, and how he fell, 

Europe, Asia, Afric, tell : 

On that theme all time shall dwell. 

James Montgomery. 




HAT is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable 
sea? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent 
sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power 
— resistless, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the 
careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tunutlt of its excited wrath. 



270 



THE GOLDEX TUEASUKY. 



MAY TO APRIL. 



:v<;fe 



plTHOUT your showers 

I bi'eed no flowers. 



i^^x ' Each field a barreu waste appears : 
fj If you dou"t weep 

My blossoms sleep. 
They take such pleasure in your tears. 

As your decay 
Made room for May, 

So I must part with all thafs mine; 
My balmj' breeze. 
My blooming trees. 

To torrid suns their sweets resign. 



For April dead 

My shades I spread. 
To her I owe my dress so gay ; 

Of daughters three 

It falls on me 
To close our triumphs on one day. 

Thus to repose 

All nature goes; 
Mon h after month must And its doom : 

Time on the ■wing, 

May ends the spring. 
And Summer frolics o'er her tomb. 

Philip Freneau. 





'Lovely the moonUi;'h» was, as it glanced and gle;i 

SCENERY OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 



THE RIVER. 



|i^XWARD o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 
m£r^ sombre with forests, 

/i^ Daj- after day they glided adown the turbulent 
?' river; 

Night after nigiit. by their blazing fires, encamped on 
its borders. 

Isow through rushing chutes, among green islands, 
where plume-like 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept 
with the current: 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand- 
bars 

Lay in the stream ; and along the wimpling waves of 
their margin. 

Shining with snow-white pluuios. large liocks of peli- 
cans waded. » 



Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the 

river. 
Shaded by China-trees, in the midst of luxuriant 

gardens. 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and 

dove-cots. 

They were approaching the region where reigns per- 
petual summer; 

'Miere through the golden coast, and groves of orange 
and citron. 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the 
eastward. 

They, too, swen^ed from their com-se ; and. entei-ing 

the bayou of Plaquemine, 
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggisli and devious 

waters. 
Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 

direction. 



GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 



271 



Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible 



of the cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 
Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient 

cathedrals. 

Death-like the silence seemed, and mibroken save by 
the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at 
sunset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac 
laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was, as it glanced and gleamed 
on the water, — 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sus- 
taining the arches. 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through 
chinks in a ruin. 

Dream-like and indistinct and strange were all things 

around thein : 
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder 

and sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen, and that cannot 

be compassed. 

THE BAYOU. 



sv^eetuess. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of 

Reeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters 

around her. 

Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird. 

wildest of singers. 
Swinging aloft on a willow-spray that hung o"er the 

water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious 

music 
That the ^\•hole air and the ^\oods and the waves 

seemed silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring 

to madness; 
Then single notes were heard, in sorrowful, low 

lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad 

in derision. 
As -when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 

■ tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling I'ain in crystal shower on 

the branches. 



With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed 

with emotion. 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through 

the green Opelousas. 
And through the amber air, above the crest of the 

woodland. 
Saw the column of smoke that rose from the neigh- 
boring dwelling — 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing 

silver of cattle. 

Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

motionless water. 



Softly the evening came. ITie sun from the western 

horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the 

landscape; 
Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest 
Sceuied all on fire at the touch, and melted and 

mingled together. 



APRIL! APRIL! ARE YOU HERE? 



:£+k 



'^H^PRIL! April! are you here? 

Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing ! 
p" See ! the sky is bright and clear, 
1 Oh, how green the grass is growing! 

April! April! are you here? 

April! April! is it you? 

See how fair the floN\'ers are springing! 
Sun is warm and brooks are clear. 

Oh. how glad the birds are singing! 
April! April! is it you? 



April! April! you ai'C here! 

Though your smiling turn to weeping. 
Though your skies grow cold and drear. 
Though your gentle winds are sleeping, 
April ! April ! you are here ! 

Dora Read Goouale. 



iOOK. love, what envious streaks 
I Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east ; 
Night's candles are burnt out. and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. 



S^-^JSEi- 



Nature is avariciously frugal ; in matter it allows no atom to elude its grasp ; in 
mind no thought or feeling to perish. It gathers u}) the fragments that nothing be lost. 



272 



THE GOLDEISr TREASURY. 




"To climb the trackless mountain all unseen 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean." 

THE POET'S SOLITUDE. 



^0 sit on rocks, to imise o'er flood and fell, 
^ To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
^ Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell. 

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
To olimh the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, — 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms and view her stores 
unrolled. 



But midst the crowd, the hum. the shock of men 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; 
Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress ! 
Xone that, ^^^th kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued; 
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 

Lord Byron. 



^.;^<oo.- 



Part IV. 



Qtuuntr^ Wxi^. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 




"When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, 
Calls for the lily-wristed morn." 



A COUNTRY LIFE. 



piWEET country life, to such unknown, 
if^ "Whose lives are others', not their own! 
But serving- courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee. 
Thou never plough'd the ocean's foam, 
To seek and bring rough pepper home ; 
Nor to the eastern Ind dost rove. 
To bring from thence the scorched clove; 



Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, 
Bring'st home the ingot from the west. 
No ; thy ambition's masterpiece 
Flies no thought higher than a fleece; 
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear 
All scoi-es, and so to end the year; 
But walk'st about thy own dear grounds 
Not craving others" larger boiuuls: 



27() 



THE GOLDEX TEEASLTRY. 



For well thou kaow"st "tis uot th" extent 
Of land makes life, but sweet content. 
Allien now the cock, the ploughman's horn. 
Calls for the lUy-wristed morn, 
Then to thy coru-tields thou dost go. 
^Miieh, though well solFd, yet thou dosl know 
That the best compost for the lauds 
Is the wise master's feet and hands. 
There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team, 
With a hind whistling there to them; 
And cheer'st them up by singiug how 
The kingdom's portion is the plough. 
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads 
Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads, 
Thou seest a present god-like power 
Imprinted in each herb and liower ; 



For sports, for i^ageantry. and jjlays. 
Thou hast thy eves and holy-days. 
On which the youug men and maids meet 
To exercise their dancing feet ; 
Tripping the comelj- country round. 
AVith daffodils and daisies crown'd. 
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast. 
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced ; 
Thyuiorris-dance, thy AYhitsun ale. 
Thy shearing feast, which never fail; 
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl. 
That's tost up after fox i' th" hole; 
Thy mumuieries, thy twelfth-night kings 
And (iueens, and Christmas revellings; 
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit. 
And no man pays too dear for it. 




"And find'st their bellies there a= full 

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool." 



And smeirst tlip breath of great-eyed kine, 

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. 

Here thou behold'st thy large, sleek neat. 

Unto the dewlaps up in meat: 

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer. 

The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near. 

To make a pleasing pastime there. 

These seen, thou go'st to \iew thy flocks 
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox; 
And find'st their bellies there as full 
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; 
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill. 
A shepherd i)i]')ing on the hill. 



To these thou hast thy time to go. 

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow : 

Thy witty w'Ues to draw, and get 

The lark into the trammel net ; 

Thou hast thy cock rood, and thy glade. 

To take the precious pheasant made ! 

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then. 

To catch the pilfering birds, not men. 

O ha]ipy life, if that their good 

The husbandmen but understood! 

Who all the day themselves do please. 

And younglings, with such sports as these: 

.\nd, lying down, have nought t' affright 

Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. 

Robert Herkick. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



277 




" Around my ivied porch shall spring' 
Hach fragrant flower that drinks the dew." 



A WISH. 



Ji^riSrE be a cot beside the hill ; 
»?5J?«i? A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill 
With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 



Aronnd my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing 
Lr russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 
Where first our marriage vows were given. 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samukl Rogers. 



-¥^i-&!^- 



|AN anything be so elegant as to have few wants and serve them one's self? Parched 
corn, and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that 
I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the 
lowest mission of knowledge or goodness, is frugality for gods and heroes. 



278 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



TOWN AND COUNTRY. 



il^OD made the countiy aud man made the town. 
^^ "\^Tiat wonder then that health and \'ii-tue, gifts 
AK That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
* That life holds out to all, shquld most abound 
And least be threatened in the fields and groves? 
Possess ye, therefore, ye who, boi-ne about 
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
Your element ; there only can ye shine ; 
There onlj^ niinds like yours can do no harm. 
Our groves were planted to console at noon 
TTie pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 



The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish. 
Birds ■\\arbling all the nuisic. We can spare 
The splendor of yom- lamps; they but eclipse 
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
Our more harmonious notes : the thrush departs 
Scared, and the offended nightingale is nuite. 
There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
It plagues your eouutiy. Folly such as yours, 
Graced \\ith a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 

William Cowpek. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 



rjj^ 



iROMthe old squire's dwelling, gloomy and grand, 
Stretching away on either hand, 
Lie fields of broad and fertile laud. 

Acres on acres everywhere, 

The look of smiling plentj^ wear, 

That tells of the master's thoughtful care. 



Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways. 
Or lie in the shade through the sultry days, 
Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 

Ah! you might wander far aud wide, 
Nor find a spot in the country's side 
So fair to see as our valley's pride ! 




*' And here voii will find on every h.and 
Walks and fountains and statues srand, 
And trees from many a foreign land." 



Here blossoms the clover, white and red. 
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread. 
And the millet lifts her golden head ; 

And, ripening, closely neighbored by 
Fields of barley aud pale white lye. 
The yellow wheat grows strong and high. 

And near, untried through the summer days, 
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze, 
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 

Straying over the side of the hill. 
The sheep run to and fro at will, 
Xibbling of sliort green grass their fill. 



How. just beyond, if it will not tire 
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher, 
We can see the pretty* village spire ; 

And, mystic haunt of the whippoorwills, 
The wood, that all the background fills. 
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills. 

There, miles away, like a faint blue line, 
"NAHienever the day is clear and fine. 
You can see the track of a river shine. 

Near it a city hides unseen. 

Shut close the verdant hills between, 

As an acorn set in its cup of green. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



279 



Aud right beneath. :it the foot of the liill. 
The little creek flows swift aud still. 
That turns the wheel of Dovecote mill. 

Nearer the grand old house one sees 

Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees, 

And tall straight pears overtopping these. 

And down at the foot of the garden, low, 
On a rustic bench, a pretty show, 
"White bee-hives, standing in a row. 



And here you will tind on every hand 
Walks and fountains and statues grand. 
And trees from many a foreign land. 

Aud flowers, that only the learned can name, 
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame. 
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. 

Far away from their native air 

The Norway pines their green dress wear; 

And larches swing their long, loose haii-. 




" Though grave and quiet at any time, 
But that now, his head in manhood's prime 
Is growing white as the winter's rime." 



Here trimmed in sprigs, with blossoms, each 

Of the little bees in easy reach. 

Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. 

At the garden's head are poplars tall, 

And peacocks, making their harsh, loud call, 

Sun themselves all day on the wall. 

IS 



Near the porch grows the brpad catalpa tree. 
And o'er it the grand wistaria 
Born to the piu'ple of royalty. 

There looking the same for a weary while — 
"Twas built in this heavy, gloomy style — 
Stands the mansion, a gi-and old ])ile. 



■2m 



THE GOLDEX TKEASURY. 



Always closed, as it is to-day. 

And the proud squire, so the ueighbois say. 

Frowns each unwelcome ajuest away. 



Though some, who knew him long ago. 
If you ask. ^\-iU shake their heads of snow. 
And teU vou he was not alwavs so. 



Though grave and quiet at any time. 

But that now, his head in manhood's prime 

Is growing white as the winter's rime. 

Phcebe Cary. 




" His little bovs are with him, seeking flowers, 
Or chasing the too venturous grilded fly." 



SUXDAT IX THE FIELDS. 



r#* 



IjKfiAIL Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest I 
^^li ITiou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell; 
'f?^ The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest 
j-i. Pale thought no more. O'er trade's conten- 
tious hell 
Meek Quiet sjireads her wings in\isible. 
But when thou com'st less silent are the tields. 
Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed towns- 
man steals ; 
To him the very air a banquet yields. 
Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels 
His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals 



A paradise of beauty to his eye. 

His little boys are with him. seeking flowers. 
Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly: 

So by the daisy's side he spends the hours. 

Eeuewing friendship with the budding bowers; 
And — while might, beauty, good without alloy. 

Are mirror'd in his children's happj' eyes, 
In His great temple offering thankful joy 

To Him the infinitely Great and Wise, 

AVith soul attimed to Xature's harmonies. 
Serene and cheerful as a sporting child. 

Ekknezkk Elliot. 



The glory of the country i.s in its homes, which contain the true elements of national 
vitality, and are the embodied type of heayen. 



COUNTKY LIFE. 



2«1 



BLOSSOM-TIME. 



IHEKE'S a weddiug ia the orchard, dear, 
I know it by the flowers : 
"•%ffi?- They're wreathed on every hough and branch, 
Or falling down in showers. 

The air is in a mist, I think, 
And scarce knows which to he — 

Whether all fragrance, clinging close, 
Or bird-song, wild and free. 



While whispers ran among the boughs 

Of promises and praise ; 
And playful, loving messages 

Sped through the leaf -lit ways. 

And just beyond the wreathed aisles 

That end against the blue. 
The raiment of the wedding-choir 

And priest came shining through. 




" There's a wedding- in tlie orchard, dear, 
I know it by the flowers." 



And countless wedding-jewels shine, 
And golden gifts of grace : 

I never saw such wealth of sun 
In any shady place. 

It seemed I heard the flutt'ring robes 
Of maidens clad in white. 

The clasping of a thousand hands 
In tenderest delight; 



And though I saw no wedding-guest, 

jS'or groom, nor gentle bride. 
I know that holy things were asked. 

And holy love i-eplied. 

And something through the sunlight said : 

"Let all who love be blest! 
The earth is wedded to the spring — 

And God. He knoweth best."' 

Makv E. Dodge. 



2«2 



thp: goi.dp:x tkeasury. 



THE PRAISE OF A SOLITAET LIFE. 






gHRICE happy he who by some shady grove, 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his 

own. 
Thou solitary, who is uot alone, 
But doth converse with that eternal love, 
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, 
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's 
throne, 



WTiich good make doubtful, do the evil approve! 
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath. 
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers 

unfold. 
Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath I 
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! 
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights : 
Woods" harmless shades have only true delights. 
William Dkummond. 







" Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.' 



THE OLD MILL. 



|p}|tESIDE the sti'eam the grist-mill stands, 
'^^m With bending roof and leaning wall ; 

^ -"^-1?.. '' O T 

'^^f- So old, that when the winds are \\ild, 
Jl The miller trembles lest it fall : 
And yet it baffles wind and rain. 
Our brave old Mill, and w'ill again. 



From morn to night in Autumn time, 
"When harvests All the neighboring plains. 

Up to the mill the farmers drive. 
And back anon with loaded wains : 

And when the children come from school 

They stop and watch its foamy pool. 



Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds : 
The gates are up, the waters poiu", 

.\nd tread the old wheels slippery round, 
The low^est step forever o'er. 

Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire, 

Because they cannot climb it higher. 



The mill inside is small and dark; 

But peeping in the open door 
You see the miller flitting round. 

The dusty bags along the floor, 
'ITie whirling shaft, the clattering s])out, 
And the yellow meal a-pouring out! 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



2«3 



All day the meal is floating there, 
Rising and falling in the breeze ; 

And when the sunlight strikes its mist 
It glitters like a swarm of bees : 

Or like the cloud of smoke and light 

Above a blacksmith's forge at night. 

I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill, 
It still recalls my boyish prime ; 

'Tis changed since then, and so am I, 
We both have known the touch of time : 



The mill is crumbling in deca}'. 
And I — my hair is early graj-. 

I stand beside tlie stream of life, 
And watch the current sweep along : 

And when the flood-gates of my heart 
Ai'e raised, it turns the wheel of song : 

But scant, as yet, the harvest brought 

From out the golden fields of Thought. 

Richard Henky Stoddard. 




FAEMIl^G. 



!fHILE the city is refreshed and renovated by the pure tides poured from the 
Hi country into its steamy and turbid channels, the cultivation of the soil affords 
at home that moderate excitement, healthful occupation, and reasonable return, 
which most conduce to the prosperity and enjoyment of life. It is, in fact, 
the primitive employment of man, — first in time, first in importance. The 
newly-created father of mankind was placed by the Supreme Author of his being in the 
garden which the hand of Omnipotence itself had planted, "to dress and to keep it." 
Before the heaving bellows had urged the furnace, before a hammer had struck upon an 
anvil, before the gleaming waters had flashed from an oar, before trade had hung up its 
scales or gauged its measures, the culture of the soil began. "To dress the garden and 
to keep it!" — This was the key-note struck by the hand of God himself in that long, 
joyous, wailing, triumphant, troubled, pensive strain of life-music which sounds through 
the generations and ages of our race. Banished from the garden of Eden, man's merciful 
sentence — at once doom, reprieve and livelihood — was "to till the ground from which he 
was liken,' and this, in its primitive simplicity, was the occupation of the gathering- 
societies of men. 

To this wholesome discipline the mighty East, in the days of her ascendency, was 
ti'ained ; and so rapid was her progress that in periods anterior to the dawn of history she 
had tamed the domestic animals, had saddled the horse, and yoked the ox, and milked the 
cow, and sheared the patient sheep, and possessed herself of most of the cereal grains 
which feed mankind at the present day. I obtained from the gardens of Chatsworth, and 
sent to this country, where they germinated, two specimens of wheat raised from grains 
supposed to have been wrapped up in Egyptian mummy-cloths 3,000 years ago, and not 
materially differing from our modern varieties; one of them, indeed, being precisel}' 
identical — thus affording us the pleasing assurance that the corn which Joseph placed in 
Benjamin's sack before the great pyramid was built was not inferior to the best of the 
present day. 

Edward Everett. 



I WOULD rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than to be crowdetl ou 
a velvet cushion. 



284 



TJIK GOLDEN TREASUHY. 



TWO PICTURES. 



^pN old farm-house w ith meadows wide 
^ And sweet with clover on each side ; 
A bright-eyed boj^ who looks from out 
The door vnth woodbine wreathed about, 
And wishes his one thought all daj- : 
'• Oh. if I could but fly away 

From this dull spot, the world to see, 
How happy, happy, happy, 
How happy I should be ! "' 



Amid the city's constant din. 
A man who round the world has been. 
Who, mid the tumult and the throng, 
Is thinking, thinking, all day long : 
" Oh, could I onlj' ti'ead once more 

The field-path to the farm-house door. 
The old green meadow could I see. 

How happy, happy, happj'. 
How happy I should be!" 

Makion Dolglass. 




"Still where he treads the sttihborn clods divide. 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide." 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 



ip|LEAJR the bro-mi path to meet his coulter's gleam ! 
W^ Lo! on he comes, behind his smokins: team, 
'A With toiFs bright dew-droi)s ou his sunburnt 
* brow. 

The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 

First in the field before the reddening sun. 
Last in the shadows when the day is done. 
Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres whei'e his feet have trod. 
Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide. 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
MeUow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves; 



Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train 
Slants the long ti-ack, that scoi-es the level plain. 
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing 

cla}'. 
The patient convoy breaks its destined way : 
At every turn the loosening chains resound. 
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round. 
Till the wide field one billowy waste .appears. 
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 

These are th'' hands whose stui-dy labor brings 
Tlie peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; 
This is the page whose letters shall be seen. 
Changed by the sun to words of living green; 



COUNTRY LIFE, 



285 



This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; 
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil 
Shows on his deed, — the charter of the soil I 

O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest. 
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time ! 
We stain thy flowers, — they blossom o'er the dead; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling stinfe has torn. 
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn ; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thj'^ fairest plain. 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms 
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms. 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
j^^nd thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. 



No, by these hills whose banners now displayed 
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; 
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery ci-cst;- 
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens. 
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, — 
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted soil; 
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind. 
If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind. 
These stately forms, that, bending even now. 
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, 
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land. 
The same stern iron in the same right hand, 
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run, — 
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




"To walk in the air how pleasant and fair.' 



THE USEFUL PLOUGH. 



COUNTRY life is sweet! 
In moderate cold and heat. 

To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! 
In every field of wheat. 

The fairest flowers adorning the bowers. 
And every meadow's brow ; 

So that I say, no courtier may 

Compare with them Mho clothe in gi'ay. 
And follow the useful plough. 



'I'hey rise with the morning lai-k. 
And labor till almost dark. 

Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep 
While every pleasant park 

Next morning is ringing -with birds that are singing 
On each green, tender bough. 

With what content and merriment 

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent 
To follow the useful plough. 



Weariness can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth finds the down pillow hard. 



286 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 




COUNTRY LIFE. 28 ^ 

COUNTRY LIFE. 

|||i|HE mercliaut tempts me with his gold. What is to me the city s pride? 
^!^ The gold he worshii^s uight aud day; The haunt of luxury and pleasure ; • 

'^W^ He bids me leave this dreary wold, • Those fields and bills, this wild broolcside, 

J>t And come into the city gay. To me are better beyond measure. 

I will not go ; I won't be sold ; Mid country scenes I'll still abide ; 

I scorn his pleasures and array; With country life and country leisure, 

I'll rather bear the countiy's cold, Content, whatever may betide, 
Than from its freedom walk awaj% .With common good instead of treasure. 



THE CITY AJsD THE COUl^TRY. 



e^^l 



UPPHE Eeverend Robert Collyer made the remark on one occasion that during his twenty 
^^ years' residence in Chicago he had not known of a single man who had come 
■^^ prominently to the front in any pursuit who was born and bred in a large citj-. 
The leading men in every calling — judges, lawyers, clergynien, editors, merchants, 
and so on — had been reared in the country, away from the follies, the vices and the 
enervating influences that are known to exist in all large towns. Fashion reduces all 
young men and women to the same dull and uninteresting level. New York is now an 
old cit}''. It has produced generations of men. How^ few of them have ever made 
tteir mark, there or elsewhere ! It cannot be said that they go into other joarts of the 
country and there develop the higher forms of manhood. They are never heard of 
except in the aggregated, concrete form of "our fellow-citizens." How much of a 
man is due to qualities born in him, and how much to his early environment, no 
philosopher has been able to tell us ; but it is impossible to conceive of a sagacious 
intellect like that of Lincoln, of a glorious mind like Webster's, emerging from the 
false glitter and noisy commotion of the city. We think of Washington, the patrician 
sage, pacing among the stately oaks of old Virginia; of Jefferson in his country-seat, 
and of John Adams tilling his farm in Massachusetts. These men, it is true, flourished 
at a time when there were no large cities in the United States. But later on we see 
Lincoln and Garfield i-eaching the topmost round of fame's ladder from the obscurity 
of country homes. Not one American President, from first to last, was born in a city. 



THE HAYMAKERS. 

lilOWN on the Merrimac River, The good wife, up the river, 

^M Wliile the autuum grass is green. Has made the oven hot, 

W Oh, there the jolly hay-men _ And \\ith plenty of pandowdy 

■|r In their gundalows are seen; Has fllled her earthen pot. 

Floating do^n, as ebbs the current, Their long oars s^eep them onward, 

And the dawn leads on the day, As the ripples round them play, 

With their scythes and rakes all ready. And the jolly hay-men drift along 

To gather in the hay. To make the meadow hav. 



288 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



At the bank-side then the3' moor her, 

WTiere the shiggJBh "waters run, 
By the shallow creek's low edges, 

Beneath the fervid sun — 
And all day long the toilers 

Mow their swaths, and day by day. 
You can see their scythe-blades flashing 

At the cutting of the hay. 

"When the meadow-birds are tlyiug. 
Then down go scythe and rake, 

And right and left their scattering shots 
The sleeping echoes wake — 



For silent spi-eads the broad expanse, 

To the sand-hills far away. 
And thus they change their work for spoit, 

At making of the hay. 

When the gimdalows are loaded — 

Gunwales to the water's brim — 
With theu" little square-sails set a. op. 

Up the river how they swim I 
At home, beside the fu-e, by night, 

^^Tiile the children round them play, 
What tales the jolly hay-men teU 

Of getting in the hay! 

George Litjt. 




'Down on the Merrimac River, 

While the autumn grass is green.' 

^K a^y-2 ^. 



THE SONG OF THE MOWERS. 



^K^E are up and away, ere the sunrise hath kissed 
?«ltj.)l^ In the valley below us, that ocean of mist. 
^^^ Ere the tops of the hiUs have grown bright in 
**" its ray, 

AVith our scythes on our shoulders, we're up 
and away. 

The freshness and beautj" of morning are ours. 
The music of birds and the fragrance of flowers ; 
And our ti-ail is the first that is seen in the dew. 
As our pathway through orchards and lanes we pursue. 



HuiTah ! here we are ! now together, as one. 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on : 
All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass. 
With a s-\\ing and a ring of the steel through the 
grass. 

Before us the clover stands thickly and tall. 
At our left it is piled in a verdurous wall ; 
And never breathed monarch more fragrant perfumes 
ITian the sunshine distills from its leaves and its 
blooms. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



289 



luvisible censers around us are swung, 
And autheuis exultant from tree-tops are flung; 
And "mid fragrance and music and beauty we share 
The jubilant life of the earth and the air. 

Let the priest and the lawyer grow pale in theu- shades, 
And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a 
maid's ; 



We care not, though dear Mother Nature may "braoze 
Our cheeks with the kiss that she gives to her sons. 

Then cheerly, boys, cheerly! together, as one, 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on ; 
AU together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass. 
With a swing and a ring of the steel through the grass. 
William Henry Burleigh. 



-^- 



-2^i 










THE CORNFIELD. 



|00]Sr as the morning trembles o'er the sky, 
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day. 
Before the ripened field the reajjers stand. 
At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves, 



While through their cheerful band the rural talk, 
The rural scandal, and the rural jest. 
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, 
And steal unfelt the sultiy hours away. 

James Thomson. 



^pHE bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down, 
y^i And ]-est ymw gentle head upon her lap. 
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, 
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, 
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; 



Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep 
As is the difference betvvixt day and night, 
The hour before the heavenlj^-harnessed team 
Begins his golden progress in the east. 



290 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



THE MOWERS. 




'here mountains roiuid a lonely dale 
Our eottag-e-roof enclose. 
Come night or morn, the hissing pail 
With yellow cream o"erflows; 
And roused at break of day from sleep. 

And cheerly timdging hither — 
A scnhe-sweep. and a scythe-sweep. 
We mow the grass together. 



Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep. 
And join for golden weather — 

A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
We mow the dale together. 

The good-wife stirs at five, we know, 
The master soon comes round. 

And many swaths must lie a-row 
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound ; 




"A scythe-sweep, and a sc\'the-sweep, 
We mow the grass together." 



The fog drawn up the mountain -side 
And scattered flake by flake. 

The chasm of blue above grows wide. 
And richer blue the lake ; 



The clover and the florin deep. 
The grass of silvery feather — 

A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep. 
We mow the dale together. 



COINTKY LIFE. 



2[)l 



The iiooii-tide brings its welcome rest 

Our toil- wet brows to dry; 
Anew with merry stave and jest 

The shi'ieking hone we plj'. 
White falls the brook from steep to steep 

Among the purple heather — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 

We mow the dale together. 



For dial, see, our shadows turn; 

Low lies the stately mead ; 
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn — 

All flesh is grass, we read. 
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep, 

To Heaven we leave it, whether — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 

We've done our task together. 

William Allingham. 




WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. 



LOVE the beautiful evening 

When the sunset clouds are gold ; 
When the barn-fowls seek a shelter 

And the young lambs seek theii- fold : 
When the four-o'-clocks are open. 

And the swallows homeward come ; 
"When the horses cease their labors, 

And the cows come home. 

When the supper's almost ready, 

And Johnny is asleep. 
And I beside the cradle 

My pleasant vigil keep : 
Sitting beside the window 

Watching for "Pa" to come. 
While the soft bells gently tinkle 

As the cows come home. 



When the sunset and the twilight 

In mingling hues are blent, 
I can sit and watch the shadows 

With my full heart all content : 
And I wish for nothing brighter. 

And I long no more to roam 
When the twilight's peace comes o'ei- me, 

And the cows come home. 

I see their shadows lengthen 

As they slowly cross the field. 
And I know the food is wholesome 

Which their generous udders j-ield. 
More than the tropic's fruitage. 

Than marble hall or dome. 
Are the blessings that surround me 

When the cows come home. 

Maky E. Nealey. 



292 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



COME TO THE SUBSET TEEE. 



iOME to the sunset tree I 

The day is past and gone : 
The Avoodman's as lies free. 
And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven. 

And the summer dew to flowers. 
And rest to us is given 

By the cool, soft evening hom-s. 



Come to the sunset tree I 
The day is past and gone ; 

The woodman's ax lies free. 
And the reaper's work is done. 

Yes ; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering houghs 
"Welcome the freshness round. 

And the gale that fans our brows. 







■Come to the sunset tree. 
The day is past and gone." 



Sweet is the hour of rest I 
Pleasant the wind's low sigh. 

And the gleaming of the west. 
And the tm-f whereon we lie. 

^^^leu the burden and the heat 
Of labor's task are o'er. 

And kindly voices greet 
The tired one at his door. 



Bur rest more sweet and still 
Than ever nightfall gave. 

Our longing hearts shall All 
In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow. 

Xo seorehing noontide heat; 
There shall be no more snow. 

Xo wearv wanderiiuj feet. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



293 



And we lift our trusting eyes, 
From the hills our fathers trod, 

To the quiet of the skies. 
To the Sabhath of our God. 



Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's ax lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



-^!S-^s=- 



MY LITTLE BROOK. 



LITTLE brook half hidden under trees,— 
^^ It gives me peace and rest the whole day 
through. 
Having this little brook to wander to. 
So cool, so clear, with grassy banks and these 
Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the trees. 



And yet the waves they come I know not whence. 
And they flow ou from me I know not whither, 
Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither ; 
But I can only see the forest dense, — 
Still the brook flows I know not where nor 
whence. 




"I sit here by the stream in full content.' 



There is a rock where I can sit and see 
The crj'stal ripples dancing down and racing. 
Like children round the stones eacli other chasing. 
Then for a moment pausing seriously. 
In a dark mimic pond that I can see. 

The rock is rough and broken on its edge 
With jutting corners, but there come alway 
The merry ripples with their tiny spray. 
To press it ere they flow on by the sedge. 
They never fail the old rock's broken edge. 

I sit here by the stream in full content. 
It is so constant, and I lay my hand 
Down through its waters on the golden sand. 
.Vnd watch the sunshine with its shallows blent. 
Watch it with ever-growing, sweet content. 



Who knows from what far hills it threads its \\ ay, 
VVTiat mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies 
O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise. 

What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray. 

Through what rare regions my brook threads its w ay. 

I only see the trees above, below. 
Who knows through what fair lands the stream may 

run, 
What children pla.y. what homes are built thereon. 

Through what great cities broadening it may go? — 

I only see the trees above, below. 

"Wliat do I care? I pause with full content. 

My little brook beside the rock to see, 

What it has been or what it yet may be, 
Naught matters, I but know that it is sent 
Flowing my way, and I am well content. 

Mary Bolles Br.\ncii. 



2i)4 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



A HARVEST HYMK 



g^REAT GOD ! — our heart-felt thanks to Thee ! 
1^ We feel thy presence everywhere; 



JIIh 



Aud pray, that we may ever be 
Thus objects of thy guardian care. 

We sowed ! — by Thee our work was seen, 
And blessed; and instantly went forth 

Thy mandate; and in living green 
Soon smiled the fair aud fruitful earth. 



We toiled I — and Thou didst note our toil; 

And gav'st the sunshine aud the rain, 
Till ripened on the teeming soil 

The fragrant grass, and golden grain. 

And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! 

From this, the earth's unbounded floor. 
We send our Song of Thanks abroad, 

And pray Thee , bless our hoarded store ! 

W. D. Gallagher. 



-^ass-e^M- 




THE OLD HOUSE. 



p'M standing by the window-sill, 
'^ Where we have stood of yore ; 



The sycamore is waving still 

Its branches near the door; 
And near me ci-eeps the wild-rose vine 

On which our wreaths were hung. — 
Still round the porch its tendrils twine. 

As when we both were young. 

The little path that used to lead 

Down by the river shore 
Is overgi-own with brier and weed — 

Not level as before. 



But there's no change upon the hill, 

From whence our voices rung — 
The ^^olets deck the summit still, 

As when ^^■e both were young. 

And yonder is the old oak-tree. 

Beneath whose spreading shade, 
^NHien our young hearts were light and free. 

In innocence we played; 
And over there the meadow gate 

On which our playmates swung. 
Still standing in its rustic state. 

As when we both were young. 

LOriSA ("IIANDLKH MOl LTON. 



COUNTEY LIFE. 



2!!;) 



RURAL NATURE. 



i|pHEKE art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell! 

pi|^ Oh, where may he thj' Paradise? Where grow 
^'^& Thy happiest groves? And down what woody 
"" T^ dell 

Do thy most fauey-winning waters How? 



Eternal summer, while the air maj^ <iuell 
His fury. Is it 'ueath his morning car, 
Where jeweled palaces, and golden thrones. 
Have awed the Eastern nations through all time? 
Or o'er the Western seas, or where afar 



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" And down what woody dell 
Do thy most fancy -winning waters flow?" 



Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow? 
And where thy ever blissful mountains swell 
Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 



Our winter sun warms up the soullieru zones 
With summer? Where can be the happy climes? 

AViLLiAM Barnes. 






IKI|0 walk with the breeze upon one's brow, to trample the level grass exuberant 
with freshness, to climb upon the mountain, to follow through the meadows 
some thread of water gliding under rushes and water-plants, — I give you my 
word for it, there is happiness in this. At this contact with healthy and natural 

things, the follies of the world drop off as drop the dead leaves when the spi'ing sap 

rises and the young leaves put forth. 

1!) 



'2m 



THE GOLDEX TEEASL-EY 



THE FARMER'S BOY 



IILED uo^^■ the sixilen luiu-murs of the uuith, 

The spleudid raimeut of the Sprmg peeps forth : 
Her imiversal green and the clear sky 
Delight still more aud more the gazing eye. 
Wide o"er the fields, in rising moisture strong. 

yhoots up the simi^le flower, or creeps along 

The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues 

Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dew: 

That summon fromtheu- sheds the slumbering ploughs 

'\Miile health impregnates every breeze that blows. 

Xo wheels support the diving, pointed share; 

Xo groaning ox is doomed to labor there; 



Welcome, green headland I firm beneath his feet : 
Welcome, the friendlj- bank's refreshing seat; 
TTiere. warm with toil, his panting horses browse 
Their sheltering cauopj- of pendant boughs ; 
Till rest delicious chase each transient pr.in. 
And new-born vigor swell in every vein. 
Hour after horn-, aud day to day succeeds. 
Till every clod aud deep-drawu furrow spreads 
To crumbling mould, — a level smlaee clear. 
Aud sn-ewed with corn to crown the rising year; 
Aud o"er the whole, Giles, ouce ti-ansverse agaiu. 
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. 




"Fnr pisT"! and ducks and turkevs throng the door." 



No helpmates teach the docile steed his road 

(Alike unknown the ploughboy aud the goad) : 

But unassisted, through each toilsome day. 

With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way. 

Draws his fresh parallels, and. ^\idening still. 

Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill. 

Strong on the -wing his busy followers play. 

Where \\Tithing earthworms meet the unwelcome day. 

Till all is changed, and hill and level down 

Assume a livery of sober brown : 

Again disturbed, when Giles with wearying <rrides 

Fi-niu ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides. 

Hi-: heels deep sinking, every step lie goes. 

Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes. 



The work is done; no more to man is given: 
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to ITeaven. 

****** 

His simple errand done, he homeward hies: 
Another instantly its; place supplies. 
The clattering dairy-maid, immersed iu steam. 
Singing aud scrubbing midst her milk and I'ream. 
Bawls out, "Go fetch the cows!" — he hears no 

more; 
Foi- pigs and ducks aud turkeys throng the door. 
And sitting hens for constant war i)rei)ared. — 
A concert strange to that which late he heard. 
Straight to the m(>ndiiw then he whistling goes: 
With well-known halloo calls his lazv cows: 



COUNTKY LIFE. 



29: 



Down the rich pastui-e heedlessly thej- giazc. 

Or hear the suiumous with an idle gaze. 

For weU thej' kuow the cow-yard yields uo 

more 
Its temptiug- fragrance, nor its wintry store. 
Reluctance uiai-ks their steps, sedate and slow. 
The right of conquest all the law they know ; 
The strong press on, the weak hy turns succeed, 
And one superior alwaj'S takes the lead. 
Is ever foremost whereso"er they stray, 
Allowed ijrecedence, undisputed sway : 
With jealous pride her station is maintained, 
For many a broil that post of honor gained. 
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene. 
For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. 
Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed 
The rich manure that drenching winter made. 
Which, piled near home, grows green with many 

a weed, 
A promised nutriment for autunm's seed. 



Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles 
The mistress, too, and followed close by Giles. 
A friendly tripod forms theii- humble seat. 
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. 
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray 
Begins the work, begins the simple lay ; 
The full-charged udder yields its willing stream 
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream; 
And crouching Giles, beneath a neighboring ti'ee. 
Tugs o'er his pail and chants with equal glee; 
AVhose hat with battered brim, and nap so bare, 
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, — 
' A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
An imambitious, peaceable cockade. 
As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid 
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; 
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store. 
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door; 
Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead U> roam. 
Till eve again recall them loaded liome. 

ROBEHT BlOOMFIKI.I). 



FARM- YARD SONG. 



HVER the hills the farm-boy goes. 

His shadow lengthened along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
In the poplar tree, above the spring. 
The katydid begins to sing; 

The early dews are falling; — 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; 
The swallows skim the river's brink ; 
And home to the woodland fly the cro\\ s. 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes. 
Cheerily calling, — 
'•Co', bossi co', boss! co'! co'! co"! 
Farther, farther, over the hill, 
Faintlj' calling, calling still, — 

"Co", boss! co', boss! co"! co"!'' 



Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 

The cattle come crowding through the gale. 

Lowing, pushing, little and great; 

About tlie trough, bj'' the farm-yard pumj). 

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jiunp. 

While the pleasant dews are falling; 
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy. 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; 
And the white stream into the bright pail flows, 
When to her task the milknuiid goes. 

Soothingly calling, — 
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"" 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool. 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool. 

Saving, -'So! so, boss! so! so!" 



Into the yard the farmer goes. 

With grateful heart, at the close of day; 

Harness and chain are hung a\\ay ; 

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow. 

The cooling dews are falling ; — 
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat. 
The pigs come grunting to his feet. 
The whinnying mare her master knows, 
Wlien into the yard the farmer goes, 
llis cattle calling. — 

'•Co', boss! co'. boss! co"! co"! co"!"' 
Wliile still the cow-boy. far away. 
Goes seeking those that have gone astray. — 

"Co', boss! co'. boss! co'! co'!" 



To supper at last the farmer goes. 
The apples are pared, the paper read. 
The stories are told, then all to bed. 
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song- 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
The household sinks to deep repose ; 
But still in sleej) the farm -boy goes 

Singing, calling. — 
'•Co', boss! co". l)oss! co"! co"! co"!"" 
And oft the nulkmaid in her dreams 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams. 

jMiU'nuu'ing. ••So, boss! so! 

.rOIIN TOWNSKNI) TkOM'HKIDGK. 



298 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



HARVEST 80XG, 



pF: LOVE, I love to see 

Jis Briffht steel sfleain throuo-h the land: 

X 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be 

I lu the reaper's tawuy baud. 

The helmet and the spear 
Are twiued with the laurel wreath ; 

But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear; 
And blood-spots rust beneath. 

I love to see the tield 

That is moist with purple stain. 
But not where bullet, sword and shield 

Lie strewn with the gory slain. 

Xo. no ; "tis where the sun 
Shoots down his cloudless beams, 

Till rich and bm-sting juice-drops run 
On the vineyard earth in streams. 

My glowing heart beats higli 

At the sight of shining gold ; 
But it is not that which the miser's eye 

Delighteth to behold. 

A brighter wealth by far 
Than the deep mine's yellow vein. 



Is seen around in the fair hills crowned 
With sheaves of burnished grain. 

Look forth thou thoughtless one. 

Whose j)roud knee never bends ; 
Take thou the bread thafs daily spread, 

But think on Hiin who sends. 

Look forth, ye toiling men, 

Though little ye possess, — 
Be glad that dearth is not on earth 

To make that little less. 

Let the song of praise be poured 

In gratitude and joy. 
By the rich man \\ith his garners stored 

And the ragged gleauer-boy. 

The feast that Nature gives 

Is not for one alone ; 
"Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives 

And the tenant of a throne. 

Then glory to the steel 

That shines in the reaper's hand. 
And thanks to Him who has blest the seed 

And crowned the harvest land. 

Eliza Cook. 



THE FARMER'S WIFE. 



^IRD-LIKE she's up at day-dawn's blush. 
In sunmier heats or winter snows — 
Her veins with healthful blood allush. 
Her breath of balm, her cheek a rose, 




■■ Homeward (his daily labors done) 
The stalwart farmer slowJv j)lods." 

In eyes — the kindest eyes on earth 
.\re sparkles of a homely mirth ; 



Demure, arch humor's ambush in 
The clear curves of her dimjjled chin. 
Ah I guileless creatm'e, hale and good. 
Ah ! fount of wholesome womanhood. 
Far from the world's uuhallowed strife! 
God's blessing on the farmer's wife. 

I love to mark her matron chai-ins. 

Her fearless steps through household way; 
Her sun-bui'nt hands and buxom arms. 

Her waist unbound by tortui-ing stays; 
Blithe as a bee, with bus.y care, 
She's here, she's there, .she's everywhere; 
Long ere the clock has struck for noon 
Home chords of toil are all in tune ; 
And from each richly bounteous hour 
She drains its use, as bees a flower. 
Apart from Passion's pain and sti'ife. 
Peace gently girds the Farmer's Wife! 

Homeward (his daily labors done) 
The stalwart farmer slowly plods. 

From battling, between shade and sini. 
With sullen glebe and stubborn sods. 

Her welcome on his spirit bowed 

Is sunshine tlashino; on a cloud! 



COl'NTRY LIFE. 



299 



All vanished is the brief eclipse! 
Hiirk ! to the sound of wedded lips, 
Aud words of tender warmth that start 
From out the husband's grateful heart I 
O ! well he knows how vain is life, 
Unsweetened by the Farmer's Wife. 

But lo ! the height of pure delight 

Comes with the evening's stainless joys, 
■VVIien by the hearthstone spaces bright 

Blend the glad tones ol girls and boys ; 
Their voices rise in gleeful swells, 
Their laughter rings like elfin bells, 
Till with a look 'twixt smile and frown 
The mother lays her infant down, 
And at her firm, ui)lifted hand. 
There's silence "mid the jovial band; 



Her signal stills their harmless strife — 
Love crowns with law the Farmer's Wife I 

Ye dames in proud, i^alatial halls — 
Of lavish wiles and jeweled dress. 
On whom, perchance, no infant calls 
(For barren oft YOUR loveliness) — 
Turn hitherward those languid eyes 
And for a moment's space be wise; 
Your sister 'mid the country dew 
Is three times nearer Heaven than you, 
And whei'e the palms of Eden stir. 
Dream not that ye shall stand by her. 
Though in your false, bewildering life. 
Your folly scorned the Farmer's Wife ! 

Paul Hamilton Haynk. 



THE PUMPKIN. 



, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun. 
The vines of the gom-d and the rich melon run. 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold. 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 
gold. 

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
Aud longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
And the'Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of 

gold; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth. 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines. 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day. when from East and from 

West, 
From North and from South come the pilgrim and 

guest. 
When the grey-haired New-Englander sees round his 

board 
The old broken links of affection restored. 



AVhen the care-wearied man seeks his mother once 

more. 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 

before. 
What moistens the lip and what brightens the o\'e'? 
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? 

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; 
When wood-gi-apes were purpling and brown nuts 

were falling ! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin. 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts 

all in tune. 
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! — none sweeter or better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine. 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking tlianthii.e! 
And the prayer, which mj' mouth is too full to expr'jss. 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less. 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie ! 

John Greenleaf Whittiek. 



fm HEAR the wood-thrush piping one mellow des- 
iis cant more. 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 
dav is o'er. 



pATII not old custom made this life more sweet 
^^ Than that of painted pomp? Are not these 
woods 
More free from perils than the envious court? 



300 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



ROBEKT OF LINCOLN. 



^fi^ERRILY sw'iugiug on biiar and weed, 
^^^ Near to the nest of bis little dame, 
'T^?^ Over the niouutaiu-side or mead, 

If Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : 

Bob-o"-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Snug and safe is that nest of otu-s, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 



Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Prettj^ and quiet, with plain brown wings. 
Passing at home a patient life. 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: 
Bob-o'-liuk, bob-o'-link 
Spink, spank, spink: 
Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 




' Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.' 



Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link. 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine. 
Sure there was never a bird so line. 

Cliee, chee, chee. 



Modest and shy as a nun is she, 

One Aveak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link. 
Spink, spank, spink: 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 
Chee. chee. chee. 



COUNTRY LIFP:. 



301 



Six white eggs on :i bed oi iiay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 
There as the mother sits all daj-, 
Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o"-liuk, 
Spink, spank, spiuk; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 

Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o"-link. bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten that nieriy air, 
Bob-o"-liuk, bol)-o-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our uest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln "s a humdrum crone ; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 
William Cullen Bryant. 



ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. 






SIT by the open window 

And look to the hills awaj', 
Over beautiful undulations 

That glow with the flowers of May — 
And as the lights aud the shadows 

With the passing moments change, 
Comes many a scene of beauty 

Within my vision's range — 
But there is not one among them 

That is half so dear to me. 
As an old log-cabin I think of 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

Now up from the rolling meadows. 

And down from the hill-tops now. 
Fresh breezes steal in at my window. 

And sweetly fan my brow — 
And the sounds that they gather and brino- 
me, 

From rivulet, aud meadow, and hill. 
Come in with a touching cadence. 

And my throbbing bosom fill 

But the dearest thoughts thus wakened. 

And in tears brought back to me. 
Cluster round that old log-cabin 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

To many a fond remembrance 

My thoughts are backwai-d cast, 
As I sit by the open window 

And recall the faded past — 
For all along the windings 

Of the ever-moving years. 
Lie wrecks of hope and of purpose 

'!'!i:tt T now behold through tears — 



And of all of them, the saddest 
That is thus brought back to me, 

Makes holy that old log-cabin 
On the banks of the Tennessee. 




" An old losf-cabin I think of 

On the banks of the Tennessee." 

Glad voices now greet me daily, 

Sweet faces I oft behold, 
Vet I sit by the open window. 

And dream of the times of old — 
Of a voice that on earth is silent. 

Of a face that is seen no more, 
Of a spirit that faltered not ever 

In the struggle of days now o'er — 
And a beautiful grave comes pictm-ed 

Foi'ever and ever to me. 
From a knoll near that old log-cabin 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

W. D. (Jallaghek. 



302 



THE GOI.DEX TEEASURY. 



SUMMER LONGINGS. 



|HI mj' heart is wcnrj- waiting. 
Waiting for the Maj'. — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
AVheie the fragrant hawthorn-brambles. 
With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting lor the Maj'. 

Ah! iny heart is sick with longiug. 
Longing for the Maj*. — 
Longing to escape from study. 
To the young face fair and ruddy. 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's daj'. 
Ah! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 
Sighing for the Maj', — 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning. 



Hopes and llowei-s that, dead or dying. 

All the winter lay. 
Ah! mv heart is sore with sighing. 

Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! m J' heart is pained with throbbing. 
T'hrobbing for the Maj'. — 
Throbbing for the seaside billows. 
Or the water- wooing willows; 
Where, in laughing and in sobbing. 

Glide the stTeams away. 
Ah ! mj' heart, mj- heart is throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May : 
Spring goes bj' with wasted warnings. — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings, — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away ; 
Man is exev weary, weary, 
AVaiting for the May! 

Denis Florence Mac-Cakthy, 



FARM. LIFE. 



:m2 



^^^GRICULTURE is the greatest among the arts, for it is first in supplying our 
^1^^ necessities. It is the mother and nurse of all other arts. It favors and 
■^r^' strengthens population; it creates and maintains manufactures, gives employment 
K to navigation and materials to commerce. It animates every species of industry, 
and opens to nations the surest channels of opulence. It is also the strongest bond of 
well regulated society, the surest basis of internal peace, the natural associate of good 
morals. 

We ought to count among the benefits of agriculture the charm which the practice of 
it communicates to a country life. That charm which has made the country, in our own 
view, the retreat of the hero, the asylum of the sage, and the temple of the historic 
muse. The strong desire, the longing after the country, with which we find the bulk of 
mankind to be i)enetrated, points to it as the chosen abode of sublunary bliss. The sweet 
occupations of culture Avith her varied products and attendant enjoyments are, at 
least, a relief from the stifling atmosphere of the city, the monotony of subdivided 
employments, the anxious uncertainty of commerce, the vexations of ambition so 
often disappointed, of self-love so often mortified, of factitious pleasures and un- 
substantial vanities. 

VTo deplore the disposition of young men to get away from their farm homes to 
our larijor cities, where they are subject to difficulties and teni])tations, which, but too 
often, they fail to overcome. 

Depend upon it, if you ^\•oul(l hold your sons and brothers liack from roaming 



COUN^TRY LIFE. 



303 



away into the penlous centres, you must steadily make three attempts- to abate the 
taskwork of farmmg to ra.se maximum crops and profits, and to surround your work 
with the exhilaration of intellectual progress. You must elevate the whole spirit of your 
vocation for your vocation's sake, till no other can outstrip it in what most ndo n 



and strengthens a civilized state 




SUMMER WOODS. 



WHE ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, 
^ Ci-oucled with multitudinous life; the din 
I Of toil and traffic, and the woe and sin. 
1 The dweller in the populous city meets • 
These have I left to seek the cool reti-eat< 
Of the untrodden forest, where, in bower. 
Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid vvith tloxv,.,- 



And roofed with ivy, on the mossy seats 
Reclining. I can while away the hours 
In sweetest converse with old books, or give 
My thoughts to God; or fancies fugitive 
Indulge, while over me their radiant showers 
Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down. 
And thanks to Ilim my meditations crown ! 

William IIknuv Bi im.kich. 



304 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



THE VILLAGE BOY. 



^^REE from the cottage comer, see how wild 

^S The village boy aloug the pasture hies. 

'M2 ^^"^ith every smell, aud soiiud. and sight beguiled. 



That round the prospect meets his ^\•ouderiug 
eyes ; 
Xow. stooping, eager for the cowslip peeps, 

As though he"d get them all, — now tired of these. 
Across the flaggy- brook he eager leaps, 
For some new flower his happy raptm'e sees ; — 



Xow. leering "mid the bushes on his knees 
On woodland banks, for blue-bell flowers he 
creeps ; — 

Aud now, while looking up among the trees. 
He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers, 

And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies : 
The happiest object in the summer hours. 

Clakke. 




" And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies.'' 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 



'LESSIXGS on thee, little man. 

Barefoot boy. with cheek of tan ! 

AVith thy turned- up i)antaloons, 
il And thy meny whistled tunes: 
"With thy red lip. redder still 
Kissed bv strawberries on the hill: 



With the sunshine on thy face. 

Through thy torn brim's jamm- grace I 

From my heart I give thee joy : 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art — the gi-own-u]i man 

Only is republican. 



COUNTEY LIFE. 



305 



Let the milliou-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudgiug at his side, 
Thou hast more thau he can buy, 
111 the reach of ear and eye : 
Outward sunshine, inward joy. 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

O I for boyhood's painless play. 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 



Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape"s clusters shine; 

Of the black wasp's cunning way. 

Mason of his walls of clay. 

And the architectural plans 

Of gray hornet artisans ! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he \\alks. 

Face to face with her he talks. 




" With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes." 



Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
Of the wild flower's time and place. 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
And the ground-inole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow. 
AV'here the freshest beri'ies grow. 



Part and parcel of her joy. 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
^Vben all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for! 

1 was rich in flowers and trees. 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 



o()(J 



THE GOLDf:X TEKASURY. 



For my taste the blaekbeny coue 
Tiirpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day and through the night: 
Whispering at the garden wall. 
'J'alked with me f roni fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
Apples of Hesperides! 
Still, as my horizon gi-ew, 
Larger grew my riches too. 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

0. for festal dainties spread. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread. 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent : 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While, for music, came the play 
Of the pied frogs" orchestra ; 



And, to light tlie noisy choir. 
Lit the fly his lamp of Are. 
I was monarch; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boj' I 

Cheerily, then, my little man I 
Live and laugh as boj'hood can ; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward. 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Ever}' evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison-cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod. 
Like a colt's for woi"k be shod. 
Made to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thj'' joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy I 

John Greenleak Whittier. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 



KI'I^OT what we would, but what we must. 
Makes up the sum of living ; 
Heaven is both more and less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough. 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 

Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 

Have worn its stony highways. 
Familiar with its loneliest sti-eet — 

Its ways were never my ways. 
My cradle was beside the sea. 
And there. I hope, my grave will be. 

Old homestead! In that old. gray town. 

Thy vane is seaward blowing. 
The slip of garden stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing: 
Below they lie. their sails all furled. 
The ships that go about the world. 

Dearer that little country house. 

Inland, with pines beside it; 
Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 

A well, with weeds to hide it : 
No flower.?, or only such as rise 

Self-sown. ])oor things, which nil despise. 



Dear country home I Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles? 
The window-vines that clamber yet. 

Wliose bloom the bee still rifles? 
The roadside blackberries, growing ripe, 
And in the woods the Indian Pipe? 

Happy the man who tills his field. 

Content with rustic labor; 
Earth does to him her fulness yield. 

Hap what ma.y to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights, oh. can there be 
A life more rational and free? 

Dear country life of child and man! 

For both the best, the strongest. 
That with the earliest race began, 

And hast outlived the longest: 
Their cities perished long ago; 
AVho the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels too ^\■\U fall; 

If so, no lamentations. 
For Mother Earth will shelter all. 

And feed the unborn nations; 
Yes. and the swords that menace now. 

Will then be beaten to the plough. 

Richard IIenkv Stoudaku. 



COUNTKY LIFE. 



307 



HAPPY THE MAN WHOSE WISH AND CARE. 



^APPy the nuia whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
lu his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bre: 

AVliose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer j-ield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern 'dly find 
Hours, days, and years slide soft away 



In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation, 
iid, And innocence, which most does jjlease 

AVith meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 

Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



;Fv-^_3t-^r«r 




"The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields.' 



CONTENTMENT WITH NATURE. 



miBERAL, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand ; 

«^% Nor was perfection made for man below : 
m, Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned, 
* Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. 
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow. 
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise, 
Thei-e plague and poison, lust and famine, grow; 
Here peaceful are the vales and pure the skies. 

And freedom fires the soul and sparkles in the eyes. 

Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse, 
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
The imi)erial l)anquet and the i-ich attire: 
Know thine own worth, and reverence the Ivre. 



Wilt thou debase the heart \\hich God refined ? 
No; let thy Heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire. 
To fancj% freedom, harmony, resigned; 
Ambition's grovelling crew forever left behind. 

O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votaiy yields I 
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore. 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds," 
And all that echoes to the song of even. 
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields. 
And all the dread magnificence of heaven. 
O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to 1)e for- 
given ! 

James Beattie. 



308 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 




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COUNTEY LIFE. 



;-30!t 



NIGHTFALL: A PICTURE. 



r^t?/r 



^0 W burns the summer afternoon • 
A mellow lustre lights the scene : 

la 7""'"" 

x§>|K And from its smiling- beauty soon 
j;l The purpling shade will chase the sheen . 

The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze ; 

The cedars long black pictures show ; 
And broadly slopes one path of raj'^s 

Within the barn, and makes it glow. 

The loft stares out — the cat intent, 
Like carving, on some gnawing rat — 

"With sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, 
Nooked, cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat. 

The harness, bridle, saddle dart 

Gleams fi-oni the loA\er, rough expanse ; 

At either side the stooping cart. 
Pitchfork, and plow cast looks askance. 

White Dobbin through the stable doors 
!-'hows his round shape; faint color coats 

The manger, where the farmer pours. 
With rustling rush, the glancing oats. 

A sun haze streaks the dusky shed ; 

Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks ; 
In mottled gloss the straw is spread; 

And the grey grindstone dully blinks. 

The sun salutes the lowest west 
With gorgeous tints around it drawn; 

A beacon on the mountain's breast, 
A crescent, shred, a star — and gone. 

The landscape now prepares for night; 

A gauzy mist slow settles roimd; 
Eve shows her hues in every sight. 

And blends her voice with every sound. 

The sheep stream rippling down the dell, 
Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; 

The pacing kine, A\'ith tinkling bell. 

Come grazing through the pasture gate. 

The ducks are grouped, and talk in tits; 
One yawns with stretch of leg and wing; 



Oue rears and fans, then, settling, sits ; 
One at a moth makes awkwaixl sjjring. 

The geese juurch grave in Indian tile. 
The ragged patriarch at the head : 

Then, screaming, flutter off awhile. 
Fold up, and once more stately tread. 

Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air; 

Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend; 
Lifts foot, glares round, then follows where 

His scratching, picking partlets wend. 

Staid Towser scents the glittering ground; 

Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep, 
"Wheels his head-drooping frame around 

And sinks with forepa^s stretched for sleep. 

The oxen, loosened from the plow, 
Eestbj' the pear-tree's crooked trunk; 

Tim, standing with j'oke-burdened brow. 
Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. 

One of the kine upon the bank. 

Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar; 
One smooths, with lapping tongue, her tlank; 

With ponderous droop one finds the floor. 

Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark 
Glimmers across the pillared scene. 

With the grouped geese — a pallid mark — 
And scattered bushes black between. 

The fii-e-flies freckle eveiy spot 
With fickle light that gleams and dies; 

The bat, a wavering, soundless blot. 
The cat, a pau- of prowling eyes. 

Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
The deepaning air and darkening ground, 

By its rich scent I trace the rose. 
The viewless beetle by its sound. 

The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars ; 

The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone; 
And now the heavens are set with stars. 

^Vnd night and quiet reign alone. 

Alfred B. Street. 



-fs^-^;^- 



p^^-I'T now the scene is changed, and all 

S^M Is fancif ull\' new ; 
fim - 

/.oj The trees, last eve, so straight and tall. 

■ Are bending on the view, 

And streams of living daylight fall 

The silverv arches through. 



The boughs are strong with glittering jieai 
As dewdrops bright and bland. 

And tliere they gleam in silvery cuiN. 
Like gems of Saniarcand. 

Seeming in wild fantastic whirls 
The works of fairvland. 



;-^i() 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUKY. 



TI-IE HOUSE ox THE HILL. 



'^ROM the wearher-worn lionse on the hrow of 
the hill 
We are dwelliug afar, iu our manhood, to-day ; 
But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked long ago, ere we wandered 
away; 



"We can hear the sharp creak of the farm-gate again. 

And the loud, cackling hens in the graj- barn near by. 
With its broad sagging floor and its scaffolds of grain, 

And its rafters that once seemed to reach to the sky ; 
^\^e behold the great beams, and the bottomless bay 
Where the farm-boys once jojnEully jumped on the hay. 








■fMm 



" From the Aveather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dAvelling^ afar, in our manhood, to-day; 

But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked long ago, ere we wandered away." 



\Ve can see the tall well-sweep that stands by the door, 
And the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken floor. 

We can hear the low hum of the hard-working bees 
At their toil in our father's old orchard, once more. 

In the broad, trembling tops of the bright-blooniiiig 
ti-ees. 
As they busily gather their sweet winter store ; 

And the murmuring brook, the delightful old horn. 

And the cawing black crows that are pulling the corn. 



We can see the low hog-pen. just over ili(> way. 

And the long-ruined shed \>y the side of the road, 
^Miere the sleds in the summer were hidden away 

And the wagons and plows in the winter were 
stowed ; 
And the cider-mill, down iu the hollow below, 

With a long, creaking sweep, the old horse used to 
draw, 
"Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago, 
What a ^Norld of sweet rapture there was in a straw; 



COUNTRY LIFE. 



311 



From the cider-casks there, looselj^ Ij'iug around, Where wa sowed, where we hoed, where we cradled 

More leaked from the hung-holes thau dripped on the and mowed, 

ground. Where we scattered the swaths thatwere hea\y\\ith 

dew, 

We behold the bleak hillsides still bristling with rocks, Where we tumbled, we pitched, and behind the tall 

Where the mountain streams murmured with musical load 

sound, The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew. 

Wtere we hunted and fished, where we chased the How we grasped the old '-Sheepskin" with feelings of 

red fox, . scorn 

With lazy old house-dog or loud-baying hound; As we straddled the back of the old sorrel mare, 




"And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp.' 



And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp 
For the shy, whirring partridge, in snow to our 
knees, 
Where, with neck-yoke and pails, in the old sugar- 
camp. 
We gathered the sap from the tall maple-ti-ees; 
And the fields where our plows danced a furious jig, 

While we wearily followed the furrow all day. 
Where we stumbled and bounded o'er boulders so 
big 
That it took twenty oxen to draw them away; 
20 



And rode up and down thfough the green rows of 
corn, 
Like a pin on a clothes-line that sways in the air, 
We can hear oiu* stern fathers reproving us still, 
As the careless old creatm-e "'comes down on a 
hill." 

We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day, 
lu the battle of life we are sti-uggling alone ; 

The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay. 
The chimney has fallen, its swallows have flown. 



312 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



But Fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings. 

Her beautiful pictures again from the past. 
And Memory fondly and tenderly clings 

To pleasures and pastimes too lovelj- to last. 

We wander again by the river to-day ; 

We sit in the school-room, o'eillowing -with fun. 
We whisper, we play, and we scamper away 

When our lessons are learned and the spelling is 
done. 

We see the old cellar where apples were kept. 
The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown, 

The little back chamber where snugly we slept, 
The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth of stone, 

"VMiere apples were roasted in many a row. 

Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long ago. 

Our grandmothers long have i-eposed in the tomb; 
With a strong, healthy race thej' have peopled the 
laud; 
They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the 
loom. 
Nor lazily brought up their babies b}- hand. 

The old flint-lock musket, whose aw^ul recoil 
Made manj^ a Nimrod with agony cry, 

Once hung on the chinmey, a part of the spoil 
Our gallant old grandfathers captured at "Ti." 

Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong; 

The kings of the forest they plucked from their 

lands ; 

TTiey were stern in their virtues, they hated all wrong, 

And they fought for the right with their hearts ami 

theii' hands. 



Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their 
might. 

And up from the valleys they went on their wa}', 
To light and to fall upon Hubbardtou"s height, 

To struggle and conquer in Bennington's fray. 

Oh ! fresh be their memoiy, cherished the sod 
That long has grown green o'er their sacred 
remains. 

And grateful our hearts to a generous God 

For the blood and the spirit that flows in our veins. 

Our Aliens, our Starks, and our Warners are gone, 
But our mountains remain with their evergreen 
crown. 

The soids of our heroes are yet marching on, 
The structure they founded shall never go down. 

From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our nuuihood to-daj-; 

But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked when we left them to wander away. 

But the dear ones we loved in the sweet long ago 

In the old village churchyard sleep under the snow. 

Farewell to the friends of our bright boyhood days, 

To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam. 
To the fathers, the mothers, now gone from our 
gaze. 
From the weather-worn house to their heavenly 
home, 
AVTiere they wait, where they watch, and will welcome 

us still. 
As they waited and watched in the house on the hill. 

Eugene J. Hall. 




Part V. 



JFrje^b^otn anJ^ Psttrioitstn. 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



..<>o^.^.C>.. 



OUR OWN COUNTRY. 



SIhEEE is a land, of every land the pride, 
^m Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside, 
^f Where brighter suns dispense serener light; 
i^ And milder moons imparadise the night ; 
A land ol beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 



Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? 
Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 
O, thou shalt And, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land thy countiy, and that spot thy home ! 

James Montgomeky. 



THE STAR-SPANOLED BANNER. 

In the month of September, 1814, the city of Baltimore was threatened by the approach of a British fleet. The chief defense of 
the city was Fort McHenry, which on the 13th became the object of a powerful attack. This attack was witnessed, under most 
remarkable circumstances, by Francis Scott Key, the author of the following song. A friend was held prisoner in the hands of the 
British. To effect his release, Mr. Key visited the squadron in a cartel, or vessel sent for the exchange of prisoners, and was 
detained by the Admiral till the termination of the attack. Placed on board a small vessel, he remained for a whole day a spectator 
of the tremendous cannonading to which the fort was subjected. On its successful resistance depended the fate of his home and 
friends. All day his eyes watched that low fortification. Night came, and in spite of all the efforts of the enemy the flag of his 
country was still flying defiantly in the rays of the setting sun. The bombardment continued through the night, and all the while 
the sleepless watcher paced the deck, straining his eyes to discern, through the smoke and darkness, if the flag was still there. By 
the fitful and lurid gleams of e.xploding shells, the Stars and Stripes were from time to time revealed to his eager gaze, and gave 
cheer to the an.\ious hours. 

Morning came. It found him with eyes still fastened on the fort. The star-spangled banner floated proudly in the morning 
breeze, and the echoes of deflant cheers were borne from the fort to his ears. At the same moment the outburst of cannon and the 
thunder of mortars proclaimed that the spirits and courage of its defenders were buoyant as ever. The attack had been foiled ; 
his home, his friends were saved. It was a proud moment; and his emotions found utterance in the picturesque and impassioned 
ode, which has become forever associated with the national banner: 



, SAY, can you see, by the daw^n's early light. 
What so proudly we hailed in the twilight's 
last gleaming? 
Wliose broad stripes and bright stars through 
the perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming ; 

And the rocket's red glare, the bpmbs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
there. 

O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering- 
steep. 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 



And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of death and the gloom of the 
grave. 
And the star-spangled banner in ti'iumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

O, thus be it ever, v^hen freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's desola- 
tion; 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued 
land 
Praise the power that has made and pi-eserved us a 
nation. 
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust." 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

315 



31 G 



THE GOLDElSr TEEASUET. 



HAIL COLUMBIA. 



||AIL Columbia, happy land. 

Hail, ye heroes ! heaveu-horn band ! 
k^ Who fought and bled in Freedonrs cause, 

i Who fought and bled in Freedonrs cause. 

And when the storm of war was gone 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 
Let independence be our boast, 
Ever mindful what it cost; 
Ever grateful for the prize, 
Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let us be, 
Eallj'ing round our Liberty; 
As a baud of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more : 
Defend your rights, defend j^our shore; 

Let no rude foe vdth impious hand. 

Let no rude foe with impious hand. 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 

"\Miile offering peace sincere and just, 

In Heaven we place a manly trust, 



That truth and justice will prevail. 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 

Sound, soimd the ti-ump of Fame ! 

Let Washington's great name 

Eing through the world with loud applause , 
Eing through the ^\•orld with loud applause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 

Listen with a joj'ful ear! 

With equal skill and godlike power, 
He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war; or guides with ease 
The happier times of honest peace. 

Behold the chief who now commands. 
Once more to ser^'e his country stands — 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, armed in virtue firm and true, 
His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay. 
And glooms obscured Cohmibia's day, 
His steady mind, from changes free. 
Resolved on death or liberty. 

Joseph Hopkinson. 



-£-5)5 



^. 



THE AMEEICAiSr FLAG. 




?HE5*r Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 
^■■ni' She tore the azure robe of night, 
T^ And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With sti'eakings of the morning light. 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the*cloud! 

"SYho reai's't aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

"\Tlien strive the warriors of the storm. 
And rolls the thunder-drum of Heaven, — 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
To ward away the battle stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbingers of victorv ! 



Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
"When speaks the signal-trumpet tone. 
And the long line comes gleaming on. 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
Has dimmed the glistening baj-onet. 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy skj--born glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance. 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy star shall glitter o'er the brave; 
\Mien death, careering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves rushed wildly back 
Before the broadsides' reeling rack. 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



317 



Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thj'' splendors fly 
In trinmph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
By angel hands to valor given. 



Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
And all thy hues were born in heaven ! 

Forever float that standard sheet. 
Where breathes the foe but falls before us. 

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 
Joseph Rodman Drake. 



ENGLISH NATIONAL ANTHEM. 



JOD save our gracious king, 
^ Long live our noble king, 
God save the king. 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 
God save the king. 

O Lord our God, arise. 
Scatter his enemies. 

And make them fall ; 



Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
On him our hopes we fix, 
God save us all. 

The choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour. 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws. 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 

God save the king. 

Henry Carey. 



RULE, BRITANNIA ! 



HEN" Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
-. ,.-..^ Arose from out the azure main, 
^^'"i>^ This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sung this strain : 

"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves." 

The nations not so blessed as thee 
Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 

\^^:lile thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 



Thee haughty tjrants ne'er shall tame: 
All their attempts to bend thee down 

Will but arouse thy generous flame. 
But work their woe and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
All thine shall be the subject main : 

And every shore it circles thine. 

The Muses, still with freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair; 
Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned. 

And manly hearts to guard the fair. 

James Thompson. 



FRENCH NATIONAL HYMN. 



PJ|I^E sons of Freedom, wake to glory: 
M^^ Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise; 
^~F^f^ Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary 
I] Behold their tears and hear their cries! 

Shall hateful tyrants mischief breeding. 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band. 



Affright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on! Mai-chon! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death! 



318 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



Xow. now the dangerous storm is rolling, 

AVhieh treacherous Ivings confederate raise; 
The dogs of Avar, let loose, are howling, 

And lo ! our walls and cities hlaze ! 
And shall we basely view the ruin, 
"\^'hile lawless force, A\dth guilty stride. 
Spreads desolation far and wide, 
"With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on! March on I 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

AVith luxury and pride surrounded. 

The vile insatiate despots dare. 
Their thirst of gold and power unbounded, 

To mete and vend the light and air I 
Like beasts of burden they would load us. 

Like gods, would bid their slaves adore ; 

But man is man, and who is more? 



Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th" avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on! March on! 
All hearts resolved on Yictorj' or death ! 

O LibertjM can man resign thee. 

Once having felt thy generous flame ? 
Can dungeon's bolts and bars confine thee. 

Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; 
But Freedom is our sword and shield. 
And all their arts are unavailing. 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

[From the French of Eoget de Lisle.] 



sS— gsM- 



PRUSSIAN" NATIOi^AL ANTHEM. 



AM a Prussian ! see my colors gleaming — 

The black-white standard floats before me free ; 
For Freedom's rights, my father's heart-blood 
V streaming. 

Such, mark ye, mean the black and white to me ! 
Shall I then prove a coward? I'll e'er be to the toward ! 
Though da.y be dull, though sun shine bright on me, 
I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Before the throne with love and faith I'm bending, 

Whence, mildly good. I hear a parent's tone; 
With filial heart, obedient ear I'm lending; 

The father trusts — -the son defends the throne! 
Affection's ties are stronger — live, my countiy. 
longer! 

The King's high call o'ei-flows my breast so free; 

I am a Prussian. A\'ill a Prussian be ! 

Not every day hath sunny light of gloiy; 

A cloud, a shower, sometimes dulls the lea; 
Let none believe my face can tell the story, 

That every wish unfruitful is to me. 



.<>>- 



How many far and nearer would think exchange 
much dearer? 
Their Freedom's naught — how then compare with 

me! 
I am a Prussian, Avill a Prussian be I 

And if the angry elements exploding. 

The lightnings flash, the thunders loudly i-oar. 
Hath not the world oft witnessed such foreboding? 

No Prussian's courage can be tested more. 
Should rock and oak be riven, to terror Ini not 
driven ; 

Be storm and din, let flashes gleam so free — 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

"WTiere love and faith so round the monarch cluster, 

"\Miere Prince and People so clasp firm their hands, 
'T is there alone true happiness can muster. 

Thus showing clear how firm the nation's bands, 
Again confirm the lealtjM the honest, noble lealt.y! 
Be strong the bond, strike hands, dear hearts, with 

me; 
Is not this Prussia? Let us Prussians be! 

[From the German.] 



THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND. 



^XajT'iIERE is the German's Fatherland? 



V: 



Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand 
■yMaere grows the vine, where flows the 

Ehine? 
Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine? — 
No! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland I 



How call they then the German's land? 
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scanned 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends? 
"Where Stj'rian toil the iron bends ? — 
No, brother; no! — thou has not spanned 
ITie German's genuine Fatherland. 



FEEEDOM .^"D PATRIOTISM. 



819 



Is then the German's Fatherland 
Westphalia? Ponierania? Stand 
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps; 
Whei-e Weser winds, where Danube sweeps; 
Hast found it now"? — Not yet! Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, where lies the German's land? 
How call they that uncouquered land? 
Is't where Tyrol's green mountains rise? 
The Switzer's land I dearly prize, 
By Freedom's purest breezes fanned — 
But no ! 'tis not the German's laud ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land? 
Baptize that great, that ancient laud! 
"Tis sm'ely Austi-ia, proud and bold. 
In wealth unmatched, in glory old? 
Oh none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's laud. 

Saj"^ then, Avhere lies the German's land? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land! 
Is't Alsace? Or Lorraine — that gem 
Wrenched from the Imperial diadem 



By wiles which princely treachery planned? 
No ! these are not the German's land. 

"Where, therefore, lies the German's land? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
AVliere'er resounds the German's tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand! 
That is the German's Fatherland. 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
Where vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valor lights the flashing ej^e. 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie. 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand — 
That is the German's Father-land ! 

That is the German's Fatherland. 

Great God ! Look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand, 

TJieir Universal Fatherland. 

[From the Gkrman.] 




suFrEEiE"GS a:nd destiny of the pilgrims. 

ETHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of 
a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across 
the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, 
the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter 
surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for 
shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to 
suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous 
I route, and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy 

wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring 
masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the 
ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with 
engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, 
against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their 
all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the 
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily 
provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, 
what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, 
in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated 
within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow 
of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the 
distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the bafiied projects, the deserted 



320 



THE GOLDEN TEEASTIRY. 



settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this ! Was 
it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? Was 
it hard labor and spare meals? Was it disease? Was it the tomahawk? Was it the 
the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, 
in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? — Was 
it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy 
fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able 
to blast this bud of hope ! Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
worth}', not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so 
steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, 
yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ! 

Edward E^t^rett. 



T^S-^si- 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 



^■5 VOICE of grief and anger. 

Of pity mixed with scorn, 
Moans o'er the waters of the west. 

Through flre and darkness borne ; 
And tiereer voices join it, 

A wild triumphant yell ! 
For England's foes, on ocean slain, 

Have hcai'd it where thej- fell. 



They speak! — the Pilgrim Fathers 

Speak to ye from their graves I 
For earth hath muttered to their bones 

That we are soulless slaves I 
The Bradfords, Cai-vers, Winslows, . 

Have heard the worm complain. 
That less than men oppress the men 

"Whose sires \\ere Pym and Vane ! 



■\A1iat is that voice which eometh 

Athwart the specti'ed sea? 
The voice of men who left their homes 

To make their children f i-ee ; 
Of men whose hearts were torches 

For freedom's quenchless fire; 
Of men. whose mothers brave brought forth 

The sire of Franklin's sire. 



"\Miat saith the voice which boometh 

Athwart the upbraiding waves? 
" Though slaves are ye, our sons are free. 

Then why will you be slaves? 
The children of your fathers 

"Were Hampden. Pym, and "\'ane! "^ 
Land of the sires of "Washington. 

Bring forth such men again ! 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



PILGRIM SOXG. 



^^^T5R the mountain-wave, see where they come : 
^^i^ Storm-cloud and wintrj- ^\•ind, welcome them 

lYf Yet where the sounding gale howls to the sea. 
^ There their song peals along, deep-toned and 
! free. 

1 •• Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come: 
WTiere the free dare to be, — this is our home! " 

England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom ; 
Scotia hath heather hills, sweet their perfume : 
Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, 
Xative land, native land, home far away! 
•'Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come. 
Where the free dare to be. — this is our home." 



Dim grew the forest-path, onward they trod; 
Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting to God ! 
Graj' men and blooming maids, high rose their song; 
Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along : 
'•Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; 
"Where the free dare to be. — this is our home! " 

Let thrive the glory-\\Teath, torn by the blast; 
Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they passed. 
Green be their mossy graves! our's be their fame, 
"\Miile their song peals along, ever the same : 
'• Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; 
"\Miere the free dare to be. — this is our home ! " 

George Lvnt. 



FEEEDOM AND PATEIOTISM. 



321 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 



e^. 



gilppHE breaking waves dashed high 
^^ On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
/■(i>|)'v And the woods against a stormy sky 
ij Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came; 
Not with the roll of the stirriug drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 



The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home I 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that jjilgrim band : — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenelj^ high. 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar'? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they ti-od ; 
They left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



THE THIETEE]:^ OOLOI^riES. 



iHE thirteen original colonies — "the old Thirteen," as they were often 
called — were New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, 
New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, 
North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia. All the rest of the 
present States were made from these, or from territory added to these. 
The history of our country down to the Revolution is, therefore, the 
history of these thirteen colonies. Each of the thirteen had something 
peculiar in its history to distinguish it from the rest. To begin with, 
they were established by several different nations. Most of them were 
founded by Englishmen ; but New York and New Jersey were settled by 
the Dutch, and Delaware by the Swedes ; while the Carolinas were first 
explored and named by a French colony. 

Most of them were founded by small parties of settlers, among whom no great dis- 
tinctions of rank existed. Two of them — Pennsylvania and Maryland — had each a 
single proprietor, who owned the whole soil. New York had its "patroons," or large 
landholders, with tenants under them. Most of them were founded by those who fled 
from religious persecutions in Europe. Yet one of them — Rhode Island — was made up 
largely from those persecuted in another colony ; and another — ^Maryland — was founded 
by Roman Catholics. Some had charter governments, some had royal governments with- 




322 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



out charters, and others were governed by the original proprietors, or those who repre- 
sented them. They were all alike in some things, however much they differed in others. 
They all had something of local self-government ; that is, each community, to a greater or 
less extent, made and administered its own laws. Moreover, they all became subject to 
Great Britain at last, even if thej' had not been first settled by Englishmen. Finally, they 
all grew gradually discontented with the British Government, because they thought them- 
selves ill-treated. This discontent made them at last separate themselves from England, and 
form a complete union with one another. But this was not accomplished without a war — 
the war commonl}^ called the American Revolution. Allien the trouble began, most of the 
people supposed themselves to be very loyal, and the}' were read}' to shout, "God save 
King George!" Even after they had raised armies, and had begun to fight, the Conti- 
nental Congress said, -'"We have not raised armies with the ambitious design of separating 
from Great Britain, and establishing independent States." They would have been pei- 
fectly satisfied to go on as they were, if the British Government had only treated them in 
a manner they thought just : that is, if Great Britain either had not taxed them, or had 
let them send representatives to Parliament in return for pa}'ing taxes. 

This wish was considered perfectly reasonable by many of the wisest Englishmen of 
the day. But King George III. and his advisers would not consent : and so they lost not 
only the opportunity of taxing the American colonies, but finally the colonies themselves. 

Thomas Wentnvorth Higgixson. 




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THE FATHERS OF THE EEPUBLIC. 

I From Decoration-Day Address, Xew York, May 30, 1SS2.I 

E see the first ships whose prows were gilded by the western sun. We 
feel the thrill of discovery when the New World was found. We see 
the oppressed, the serf, the peasant, and the slave — men whose flesh 
had known the chill of chains — the adventurous, the proud, the brave, 
sailing an unknown sea, seeking homes in unknown lands. We see 



the settlements, the little clearings, the block-house and the fort, the 
rude and lonely huts. Brave men, true women, builders of homes, 
fellers of forests, founders of States ! Separated from the Old World — 
away from the heartless distinctions of caste ; away from sceptres 
and titles and crowns — they governed themselves. They defended 
their homes, they earned their bread. Each citizen had a voice, and 
the little villages became almost republics. Slowly the savage was driven, foot by 
foot, back in the dim forest. The days and nights were filled with fear, and the slow 
years with massacre and war, and cabins' earthen floors were wet with blood of mothers 
and their babes. But the savages of the New World were kinder than the kings and 
nobles of the Old ; and so the human tide kept coming, and the places of the dead 
were filled. Amid common dangers and common hopes, the prejudices and feuds of 
Europe faded slowly from their hearts. From every land, of every s];)eech, driven by 
want and lured by hope, exiles and emigrants sought the mysterious continent of the 




FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 323 

West. Year after year the colonists fought, and toiled, and suffered, and increased. 
They began to talk about liberty — to reason of the rights of man. They asked no 
help from distant kings, and they began to doubt the use of paying tribute to the 
useless. They lost respect for dukes and lords, and held in high esteem all honest men. 

There was the dawn of a new day. They began to dream of independence. They 
found that they could make and execute the laws. They had tried the experiment of 
self-government. They had succeeded. The Old World wished to dominate the New. 
In the care and keeping of the colonists was the destiny of this continent — of half 
the world. On this day the story of the great struggle between colonists and kings 
should be told. We should tell our children of the contest — first for justice, then for 
freedom. We should tell them the history of the Declaration of Independence — the 
chart and compass of all human rights — that all men are equal and have the right to 
life, liberty and joy. This declaration uncrowned kings, and wrested from the hands 
of tyranny the sceptre of usurped and arbitrary power. It superseded royal grants, 
and repealed the cruel statutes of a thousand years. It gave the peasant a career, it 
knighted all the sons of toil, it opened all the paths to fame, and put the star of hope 
above the cradle of the poor man's babe. England was then the mightiest of nations — 
mistress of every sea — and yet our fathers, poor and few, defied her power. To-day 
we remember the defeats, the victories, the disasters, the weary marches, the poverty, 
the hunger, the sufferings, the agonies, and, above all, the glories of the Revolution. 
We remember all — from Lexington to Valley Forge, and from that midnight of despair 
to Yorktown's cloudless day. We remember the soldiers and thinkers — the heroes 
of the sword and pen. They had the brain and heart, the wisdom and the courage 
to utter and defend these words: "Governments derive their just powers from the 
consent of the governed." In defense of this sublime and self-evident truth the war 
was waged and won. To-day we remember all the heroes, all the generous and chivalric 
men who came from other lands to make ours free. 

Of the many thousands who shared the gloom and glory of the seven sd!cred years, 
not one remains. The last has mingled with the earth, and nearly all are sleeping 
now in unmarked graves, and some beneath the leaning, crumbling stones, from which 
their names have been effaced by Time's irreverent and relentless hand. But the 
Nation they founded remains. The United States are still free and independent. The 
"Government derives its just powers from the consent of the governed," and fifty 
millions of people remember with gratitude the heroes of the Revolution. 

Robert G. Ingersoll. 



^EONIDAS and Washington, l^pHILE Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 

t'^k, Whose every battle-field is holy ground, pHl^ Calming the lightning which he thence hath 

'W^ Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds ^^^^ riven, 

«r'» undone; !j Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! Freedom and peace to that which boasts his 

While the mere victors may appall or stun birth ; 

The servile and the vain, such names will be '\Miile Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 

A watchword till the Future shall be free. Shall sink while there's an echo left to air. 



324 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



LIBEETT OE DEATH. 




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[From the speech delivered in ^March, 1775, in the secona Vir^nia Convention, in support 
of the resolution "that the colony be immediately put in a state of defence."] 

E. PEESIDEXT : It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of 
hope. V>e are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and 
listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. 
Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle 
for libert}'? Ai'e "we disposed to be of the number of those who, 
having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so 
nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever 
anguish of spu'it it may cost, I am wilhng to know the whole truth — 
to know the worst, and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by 
which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I 
know of no way of judging of the future but by the past ; and, 
judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the 
conduct of the British ministry for the last ten year's to justify 
those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace 
themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our 
petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your 
feet ! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this 
gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover 
our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love 
and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force 
must be called in to win back our love? 

Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subju- 
gation — the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask, sir, what means this martial 
array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any 
other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the 
world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? Xo, sir, she has none; 
they are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind 
and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. 
And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we tr\' argument? Sir, we have been 
tryins: that for the last ten years. Have we an^^thing new to offer upon the subject? 
Xothins:. "We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable, but it 
has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What 
terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not. I beseech 
you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done ever^-thing that could be done to 
avert the storm that is now coming on. VTe have petitioned; Ave have remonstrated; 
we have supplicated : we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have 
implored its interposition to ai-rest the t^Tannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. 
Our petitions have been slighted : our remonstrances have produced additional 
violence and insult ; our applications have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned 
with contempt from the foot of the throne I In vain, after these things, may we indulge 



FBEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 325 

the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. 
If we wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges 
for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not basely to abandon the 
noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged 
ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, 
we must fight! I repeat it, sir: We must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of 
Hosts is all that is left us ! 

They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so formidable an 
adversary; but when shall we be stronger? Will it be the .next week, or the next 
year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed 
in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we 
acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the 
delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we 
are not weak if we make a proper use of those mesins which the God of Nature hath 
placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in 
such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can 
send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone : there is a just God who 
presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for 
us. The battle is not to the strong alone : it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. 
Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late 
to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission or slavery ! Our chains 
are forged ! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston ! The war is inevitable, 
and let it come ! I repeat it, sir: Let it come ! 

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry "Peace! peace!" but 
there is no peace. The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north 
will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are already in the field ! 
Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is 
life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? 
Forbid it. Almighty God ! I know not what course others may take, but, as for me, give 
me liberty, or give me death ! 

Patrick Henry. 

L.3-^c^-&j • 

WARREK'S ADDRESS. 

^^TAXD! the ground's your own, my braves! Who have done it! From the vale 

1^] Will ye give it up to slaves? On they come! —and will ye quail? 

^Ij!^ Will ye look for gi-eener graves? Leaden rain and iron hail 
Hope ye mercy still? Let their welcome be ! 

What's the mercy despots feel? 

Hear it in that battle-peal ! I" the God of battles trust ! 

Read it on yon bristling steel! ^^^ ^^« may-aud die we must! 

Ask it- ye who will. ^"t' ^ ^^^'^^re can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? As where heaven its dews shall shed 

Will ye to your homes retire? On the martyred patriot's bed. 

Look behind you ! —they're afire ! And the rocks shall raise their head. 
And, before you, see Of his deeds to tell? 

John Pierpont. 



32(3 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



THE BATTLE OF LEXIXGTOX. 



^HEX haste ye. Prescott and Eevere ! 

Bring all the men of Lincoln here ; 

"'yS-i'-'^ Let Chelmsford, Littleton. Carlisle, 



Let Acton. Bedford, hither file- 
Oh. hither tile, and plainly see 
Out of a wound leap Libert}". 



Say, AVoodman April I all in green. 
Say, Eobin April I hast thou seen 
In all thy travel round the earth 
Ever a morn of calmer birth? 
But morning's eye alone serene 
Can gaze across yon village-green 
To where the trooping British run 
Through Lexington. 

Good men in fustian, stand ye still ; 

The men in red come o"er the hill. 

'• Lay down your arms, damned rebels I " cry 

The men in red full haughtily. 

But never a grounding gun is heard. 

The men in fustian stand unstirred; 

Dead calm, save may be a wise bluebkd 

Puts in his little heavenly word. 

O men in red ! if ye but knew 

The half as much as the bluebirds do, 

Xow in this little tender calm 

Each hand would out. and every palm 

ATith patriot palm strike brotherhood's sd'oke 

Or ere those lines of battle broke. 

O men in red ! if ye but knew 

The least of the all that bluebirds do. 

Xow in this little godlj- calm 

Ton voice miffht sing: the Future's Psalm — 



The Psalm of Love Mith the brotherly eyes 
Who pardons and is verj' wise — 

Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, 

"Fire!" 
The red-coats fire, the homespims fall; 
The homespuns" anxious voices caU. 
" Brother, art hurt I "" and. '• AMiere hit. John?" 
And '* Wipe this blood." and •■ Men. come on! "' 
And '• Xeighbor. do but lift my head," 
And " Who is wounded? AATio is dead? " 
" Seven are killed ; my God! my God! 
Seven lie dead on the village sod — 
Two Harringtons, Parker. Hadley. Bro\\-n, 
Monroe^iud Porter — these are down. 
Xay. look! stout Hamngton not yet dead! '" 
He crooks his elbow, lifts his head ; 
He lies at the steps of his own house-door; 
He crawls and makes a path of gore. 
The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed; 
He hath reached the step, but the blood hath 

gushed ; 
He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door. 
But his head hath dropped : he will crawl no more. 
Clasp, wife, and kiss, and lift the head : 
Harrington lies at his doorstep, dead. 

But, O ye Six that round him lay. 

And bloodied up that April day! 

As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell — 

At the door of the House wherein ye dwell; 

As Harrington came, j-e likewise came. 

And died at the door of your House of Fame. 

Sidney Lanier. 



HTMX. 

[Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1S76.] 



p^^Y the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
^^: Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. 
'y|;"v'' Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
j,^ And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 



On this green bank, by this soft stream. 

We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

"WTien. like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit that made those heroes dare 
To die. or leave their children free. 

Bid Time and Xature gently spare 
llie shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Kalpii AValdo Emerson. 



IaXD of song! " said the warrior bard. 
•• Though all the world betray thee. 
__ One sword at least thy rights shall guard. 
J^'' One faithful harp shall praise thee! " 



teAT grounded maxim. 

.So rife and celebrated in the mouths 
Of wisest men, that to the public good 
Private respects must yield. 



FEEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



327 




ADDEESS TO THE AMEEIOAlsT TROOPS BEEOEE THE 
m . BATTLE OF LOITG ISLA1>^D, 1776. 



jHE time is now near at hand, wliich must probably determine whether 
Americans are to be freemen or slaves ; whether they are to have any 
property they can call their own ; whether their houses and farms are to 
be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of 
wretchedness, from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate 
of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and 
conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only 
the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We 
have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. 

Our own, our country's honor, calls upon us for a vigorous and 
manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous 
to the whole world ! Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the 
Supreme Being, in whose hands victoiy is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble 
actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their 
blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny 
meditated against them. Let us therefore, animate and encourage each other, and show 
the whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to 
any slavish mercenary on earth. 

Liberty, property, life, and honor are all at stake; upon your courage and conduct 
rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country; our wives, children, and parents 
expect safety from us only ; and they have every I'eason to believe that Heaven will crown 
with success so just a cause. 

The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; but remember they 
have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad — 
their men are conscious of it ; and, if opposed with firmness and coolness on their first 
onset, with our advantage of works, and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most 
assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and 
reserve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. 

George Washington. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us. 

As seamen know the sea ; 
We know its walls of thorny vines. 

Its glades of reedy grass. 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 



Woe to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear ; 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain. 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A might\' host behind. 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 



328 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over. 

-Ynd share the battle's spoil. 
ITie woodlands ring with laugh and shout. 

As if a hunt were up. 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendlj- moon 

The band that Marion leads. 
The gliner of their rifles. 

The scampering of their steeds. 
"Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain ; 



"Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp, — 

A moment. — and away I 
Back to the pathless forest, • 

Before the jjeep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee. 

Grave men with hoary hairs : 
Their hearts are all with Marion. 

For Marion are theu' prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming. 
With smUes like those of summer. 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trustj- arms. 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton. 

Forever, from our shore. 

William Cullex Bktaxt. 



A PvETOLrTIOXAET SERMOX, 





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fPrc.iched on the eve of the battle of Brando-wine (September lo. 1777), in the presence cf V.'ashington 
and his Army, at Chadd's Ford.] 

" They that take the sv.ord shall perish hy the s^jord." 

OLDIERS and Countiymen : — \^'e have met this evening perhaps for the last 
time. ^Ve have shared the toil of the march, the peril of the fight, the dis- 
may of the retreat — alike we have endured toil and hunger, the contumely 
of the internal foe, the outrage of the foreign oppressor. We have sat 
night after night beside the same camp-fire, shared the same rough soldier's 
fare : we have together heard the roll of the reveille which called us to 
duty, or the beat of the tattoo which gave the signal for the hardy sleep of 
the soldier, with the earth for his bed, and the knapsack for his pillow. 

And now, soldiers and brethren, we have met in the peaceful valley, 
on the eve of battle, while the sunlight is dying away beyond yonder 
heijrhts. the sunliofht that to-morrow morn will glimmer on scenes of 
blood. AVe have met amid the whitening tents of our encampment ; in 
times of terror and gloom have we gathered together — God gi-ant it may 
not be for the last time. It is a solemn time. Brethren, does not the 
awful voice of nature seem to echo the sympathies of this hour? The flag of our country 
droops heavily from yonder .staff — the breeze has died away along the plain of Chadd's 
Ford — the plain that spreads before us glistening in sunlight — the heights of the Brandy- 
wine arise ^loomv and srrand bevond the waters of vonder stream, and all nature holds a 
pause of solemn silence, on the eve of the bloodshed and strife of the morrow. 
"They that take the sword shall perish by the sword."" 

And have they not taken the sword? Let the desolated plain, the blood-soddened 
valley, the burned farmhouse, the sacked village, and the ravaged town, answer — let the 
whitening bones of the butchered farmer, strewn alons the fields of his homestead, answer. 




FEEEDOM AXD PATRIOTISM. 320 

Let the starving mother, with the babe clinging to lier withered breast, that can afford no 
sustenance, let her answer, with the death rattle mingling with the murmuring tones that 
mark the last struggle for life — let the dying mother and her babe answer ! It was but a 
day past, and our land slept in the light of peace. War was not here — wrong was not 
here. Fraud, and woe, and misery, and want, dwelt not among us. From the eternal 
solitude of the green woods arose the blue smoke of the settler's cabin, and golden fields 
of corn peered forth from amid the waste of the wilderness, and the glad music of human 
voices awoke the silence of the forest. Now ! God of mercy, behold the change ! Under 
the shadow of a pretext — under the sanctity of the name of God, invoking the Redeemer 
to their aid, do these foreign hirelings slay our people ! They throng our towns, they 
darken our plains, and now they encompass our posts on the lonely plain of Chadd's Ford. 

"They that take the sword shall perish by the sword." 

Brethren, think me not unworthy of belief when I tell you that the doom of the 
Britisher is near ! Think me not vain when I tell you that beyond that cloud that now 
enshrouds us, I see gathering, thick and fast, the darker cloud and the blacker storm of a 
Divine Retribution ! They may conquer us to-morrow ! Might and wrong may prevail,, 
and we may be driven from this field — but the hour of God's own vengeance will come. 

Aye, if in the vast solitudes of eternal space — if in the heart of the boundless universe 
there throbs the being of an awful God, quick to avenge, and sure to punish guilt, thea 
will the man, George of Brunswick, called King, feel in his brain and in his heart the ven- 
geance of the Eternal Jehovah ! A blight will be upon his life — a withered brain, an 
accursed intellect — a blight will be upon his children, and on his people. Great God ! 
how dread the punishment ! 

A crowded populace, peopling the dense towns where the man of money thrives,, 
while the laborer starves ; want striding among the people in all its forms of terror ; an 
ignorant and God-defying priesthood, chuckling over the miseries of millions; a proud 
and merciless nobility, adding wrong to wrong, and heaping insult upon robbery and 
fraud; royalty corrupt to the very heart, aristocracy rotten to the core; crime and want 
linked hand in hand, and tempting men to deeds of woe and death : these are a part of 
the doom and retribution that shall come upon the English throne and people. Soldiers — 
I look around among your familiar faces with a strange interest ! To-morrow morning we 
will all go forth to battle — for need I tell you, that your unworthy minister will go Avith 
you, invoking God's aid in the fight? We will march forth to battle. Need I exhort you 
to fight the good fight — to fight for your homesteads, for your wives and your children? 
My friends, I might urge you to fight by the galling memories of British wrong ! 

Walton, — I might tell you of your father, butchered in the silence of midnight, 
on the plains of Trenton: I might picture his gray haii's, dabbled in blood: I might ring 
his death shriek in your ears. 

Shelmire, — I might tell you of a mother butchered, and a sister outraged — the lonely 
farmhouse, the night assault, the roof in flames, the shouts of the troopers as they de- 
spatched their victims, the cries for mercy, the pleadings of innocence for pity. I might 
paint this all again, in the terrible colors of vivid reality, if T thought your courage needed 
such wild excitement. But I know you are strong in the might of the Lord. You will go 
forth to battle to-morrow with light hearts and determined spirits, though the solemn duty, 
the duty of avenging the dead, may rest heavy on your souls. And in the hour of battle, 
21 



330 



THE GOLDEX TOEASUEY. 



when all around is darkness, lit by the lurid cannon-glare and the piercing musket-flash, 
when the wounded strew the ground, and the dead litter your path, then remember, 
soldiers, that God is with you. The Eternal God fights for you — He rides on the battle- 
cloud, He sweeps onward with the mai'ch of the hurricane charge. The AAvful and the 
Infinite fights for you, and you will triumph. 

"They that take the sword shall perish by the sword." 

You have taken the sword, but not in the spirit of wrong and ravage. You have taken 
the sword for j'our homes, for your wives, for your little ones. 

You have taken the sword for truth, for justice and right: and to you the promise is, 
be of good cheer, for your foes have taken the sword, in defiance of all that man holds 
dear — in blasphemy of God; the}' shall perish by the sword. 

And now, brethren and soldiers, I bid j'ou all farewell. Many of us may fall in the 
fight of to-morrow — God rest the souls of the fallen — many of us may live to tell the 
story of the fight of to-morrow, and in the memory of all will ever rest and linger the 
quiet scene of this autumnal night. Solemn twUight advances over the valley: the woods 
on the opposite heights fling their long shadows over the green of the meadow ; around us 
are the tents of the Continental host, the half -suppressed bustle of the camp, the hurried 
tramp of soldiers to and fro ; now the confusion, and now the stillness which mark the 
eve of battle. TThen we meet again, may the long shadows of twilight be flung over a 
peaceful land. God in heaven grant it. 

Hugh Hexry Breckexrldge. 



TALLET FOEGE. 

[Extract from an oration delivered upon the occasion of the first Centenary Anniversary 
of the Encampment at Valley Forge.] 

Y C0UNTEY:MEN : The century that has gone by has changed the face 
of nature and wrought a revolution in the habits of mankind. We 
stand to-day at the dawn of an extraordinary age. Freed from the 
chains of ancient thought and superstition, man has begun to win the 
most extraordinary victories in the domain of science. One by one 
he has dispelled the doubts of the ancient world. Nothing is too 
difficult for his hand to attempt — no region too remote — no place too 
sacred for his daring eye to penetrate. He has robbed the earth of 
her secrets and sought to solve the mysteries of the heavens ! He has 
secured and chained to his sei-vice the elemental forces of nature — he 
has made the fire his steed — the winds his ministers — the seas his 
pathway — the lightning his messenger. He has descended into the 
bowels of the earth, and walked in safety on the bottom of the sea. 
He has raised his head above the clouds, and made the impalpable air his resting-place. 
He has tried to analyze the stars, count the constellations, and weigh the sun. He has 
advanced with such astounding speed that, breathless, we have reached a moment when 
it seems as if distance had been annihilated, time made as naught, the inAnsible seen, 
the inaudible heai'd, the unspeakable spoken, the intangible felt, the impossible accom- 




FREEDOM AXD PATEIOTISM. 



331 



plished. And already we knock at the door of a new century which promises to be 
infinitely brighter and more enlightened and happier than this. But in ail this blaze 
of light which illuminates the present and casts its reflection into the distant recesses of 
the past, there is not a single ray that shoots into the future. Not one step have we 
taken toward the solution of the mystery of hfe. That remains to-day as dark and 
unfathomable as it was ten thousand years ago. 

We know that we are more fortunate than our fathers. We believe that our children 
shall be happier than we. We know that this century is more enlightened than the 
last. We believe that the time to come will be better and more glorious than this. 
We think, we believe, we hope, but we do not know. Across that threshold we may 
not pass ; behind that vail we may not penetrate. Into that country it may not be for 
us to go. It may be vouchsafed to us to behold it, wonderingly, from afar, but never to 
enter in. It matters not. The age in which we live is but a link in the endless and 
eternal chain. Our lives are like the sands upon the shore; our voices like the breath 
of this summer breeze that stirs the leaf for a moment and is forgotten. Whence we 
have come and whither we shall go, not one of us can tell. And the last survivor of 
this mighty multitude shall stay but a little while. 

But in the impenetrable To Be, the endless generations are advancing to take our 
places as we fall. For them as for us shall the earth roll on and the seasons come 
and go, the snowflakes fall, the flowers bloom, and the harvests be gathered in. For 
them as for us shall the sun, like the life of man, rise out of darkness in the morning and 
sink into darkness in the night. For them as for us shall the years march by in the 
sublime procession of the ages. And here, in this place of sacrifice, in this vale of 
humiliation, in this valley of the shadow of that Death out of which the life of America 
arose, regenerate and free, let us believe with an abiding faith that, to them. Union will 
seem as dear, and Liberty as sweet, and Progress as glorious, as they were to our fathers 
and are to you and me, and that the institutions which have made us happy, preserved 
by the virtue of our children, shall bless the remotest generations of the time to come. 
And unto Him who holds in the hollow of His hand the fate of nations, and yet marks the 
sparrow's fall, let us lift up our hearts this day, and into His eternal care commend 
ourselves, our children, and our country. 

HejsRY Armitt Bkowx. 

.A. 2-c)y-£ ,4,= 

NATHAN HALE. 



|0 dmm-bea*- and heart-beat 
5 A soldier iniux'hes bj- ; 
I There is color in his cheek, 
There is courage in his eye; 
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat 
In a moment he must die. 

By starlight and moonlight 
He seeks the Briton's camp, 

And he hears the rustlin-g flag 
And the armed sentry's tramp, 

And the starlight and moonlight 
His silent wanderings lamp. 



With slow tread and still tread 
He scans the tented line. 

And he counts the battery guns 
By the gaunt and shadowy pine; 

And his slow tread and still tread 
Gives no warning sign. 

Tlie dark wave, the plumed wave, 
It meets his eager glance, 

And it sparkles 'neath the stars 
Like the glimmer of a lance; 

The dark wave, the i)lumed wave. 
On an emerald expanse. 



332 



THE GOLDBX TREASUEY. 



A sharp clang, a steel elaug. 

And terroi' in the sound. 
For the sentiy. falcon-eyed. 

In the camp a spy hath found : 
With a shai-p clang, a steel clang. 

The patriot is bound. 

With calm brow, with steady brow, 
He lobes him for the tomb; 

In his look there is no fear. 
Xor a shadow trace of gloom : 

But with calm brow, with steady brow, 
He robes him for the tomb. 

Through the long night, the still night, 

He kneels upon the sod. 
And the brutal guards withhold 

E"en the solemn word of God; 
Through the long night, the still night. 

He walks ^\■here Christ hath trod. 



In the blue morn, the sunny morn. 

He dies upon the tree, 
And he mourns that he can lose 

But one life for liberty" ; 
In the blue morn, the sunny morn. 

His si)irit wings are free. 

But his last words, his message words. 

They burn, lest friendly eye 
Should read how proudly and calm 

A patriot could die ; 
With his last words, his message words. 

A soldier's battle-crj'. 

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf. 

From monument and urn. 
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven. 

His ti-agic fate shall learn : 
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf 

The name of Hale shall burn. 

FKA3JCIS Miles Fixch, 



S'HSs 




THE SUEVIVOES OF THE BATTLE OF 

Br:^E:EE hill. 



EXERABLE men I you have come down to us from a former generation. 
Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that jou might behold 
this joyous da}'. You are now where you stood fift}- years ago, this 
very hour, with 3'our brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, 
in the strife of j'our country. Behold how altered? The same heavens 
are, indeed, over your heads; the same ocean rolls at 3'our feet; btit all 
else, how changed I You hear now no roll of hostile cannon; you see 
no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown, 
The ground strewed with the dead and d^dng; the impetuous charge; 
the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to repeated assault ; the 
summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance ; a thousand bosoms freely and 
fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death — all 
these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All is peace. The heights of 
yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children, 
and countrymen, in distress and terror, and looking with untitterable emotions for the 
issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy popu- 
lation, come out to welcome and greet you Avith a universal jubilee. 

Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this 
mount, and seeming fondly to cling arotind it, are not means of annoyance to you, but 
your country's own means of distinction and defense. 

All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of yottr country's happiness ere you 
slumber in the grave forever. He has allowed yott to behold and to partake the reward of 
your patriotic toils: and He has allowed us, your sons and cotintrymen. to meet you here, 
and. in the name of the present generation, in the name of yotir country, in the name of 
liberty, to thank you. But, alas I you are not all here. Time and the sword have thinned 



FEEEDOM AXD PATRIOTISM. 333 

your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Keed, Pomeroy, Bridge — our eyes seek 
for you in vain amidst tliis broken band; you are gathered to your fathers, and live only 
to your country in her grateful remembrance, and your own bright example. But let us 
not too much grieve that you have met the common fate of men : you lived, at least, long 
enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived 
to see your country's independence established, and to sheathe your swords from war. 
On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of Peace, like 

"Another morn, 
Kisen on mid-noon;"' 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. But — ah! — him! the first 
great martyr in this great cause ! him ! the premature victim of his own self-devoted 
heart ! him, the head of our civil councils, and the destined leader of our military bands; 
whom nothing brought thither but the unquenchable fire of his own spirit; him, cutoff 
by Providence, in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom; falling, ere he saw 
the star of his country rise; pouring out his generous blood, like water, before he knew 
whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of bondage ! 

How shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the uttei'ance of thy name ! Our 
poor work may perish, but thine shall endure! This monument may molder away; the 
solid ground it rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea ; but thy memory shall 
not fail ! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of 
patriot'.sm and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred with thy spirit. 

Daniel Webster. 



COLUMBIA. 



•^:^_ 



«OLUMBIA, Columbia to gloiy arise, Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, 

f^ The queen of the worid, and the child of the And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; 

A skies . rpi^g graces of form shall a\\ake pure desire, 

4 Thy genius commands thee; with rapture And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire : 

1 behold. Their sweetness unmingled. their manners refined, 

1 While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. And virtue's bright image enstamped on the mind. 

Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time; -VVrifi^ p^^^^^g ^^^^1 g^j^ i.-ipture shall teach life to glow, 

Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; And light up a smile on the aspect of woe. 

Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name; 

Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, 

The nations admire and the ocean obev ; 

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; j,^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^, ^1^,.^. jt^ ^.-^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^ 

Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire ; ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ g^uth yield their spices and gold. 

Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend. ^g ^^^^ ^ay-spring unbounded thy splendor shall flow, 

And triumph pursue them, and gloiyattend. ,^,^^, ^^^^^,^ jj^^^p kingdoms before thee shall bow, 

A worid is thy realm ; for a worid be thy laws ; ^yj^jlg ^^^ ensio-n« of Union, in triumph unfuried. 

Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; jj„gjj ^^^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^.^^.^ ^^^^ g;^,^ p^.^ee to the world. 
On freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise. 

Extend with the main and dissolve with the skies. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread. 

Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, f'''"'" "^^'iiT"i? dread confusion I pensively strayed, — 

And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star; ^he gloom from the face of fair heaven retired,^ 

l^ew bards and new sages unrivaled shall soar The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired, 

To fame unextinguished when time is no more; Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along. 

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed. And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 

Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; " Columbia. Columbia, to glory arise. 

Hero, grateful to Heaven, with transport shall bring The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." 
Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. Timothy Dwight. 



334 



THE GOLDEX TEEASOiT. 







i 



SOITTH CAEOLIXA AXD MASSACHITSETTS. 

[From a speech in defense of tlie Union and the Constitution, delivered in the 
Senate of the United Statesjanuary 26, 1S30.] 

i HE euloffium pronounced b\' the honorable orentleman on the character of 
the State of South Carolina, for her Revolutionary and other merits, 
meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honoi- 
able member goes before me in regard for whatever of distinguished 
talent or distinguished character South Carolina has pi-oduced. I claim 
part of the honor: I partake in the pride of her great names. I claim 
them for countrymen, one and all, — the Laurenses, the Rutledges, the 
Pinckneys, the Sumters, the Marions, — Americans all, whose fame is no 
more to be hemmed in by State lines, than their talents and patriotism 
were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. 

In their day and generation they served and honored the country, and the whole 
countrv : and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him whose honored 
name the gentleman himself bears, — does he esteem me less capable of gratitude for his 
patriotism, or sympathy for his suiferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the 
licrht of ^Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to 
exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom? Xo, sir; increased 
o-ratification and delight, rather. I thank God that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit 
which is able to raise mortals to the skies, I have 3-et none, as I trust, of that other spirit, 
which would drag angels down. 

^Vlien I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at 
public merit because it happens to spring up beyond the limits of my own State or neigh- 
borhood; when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to Amei'i- 
can talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country; or if I 
see an uncommon endowment of heaven, — if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in 
any son of the South, and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by State jealous^', I 
get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, — may my 
tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth. 

Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections ; let me indulge in refreshing remembrances 
of the past ; let me remind you that, in early times, no States cherished greater harmony, 
both of principle and feeling, than ^Massachusetts and South Carolina. "Would to God that 
harmony might again return I Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution : 
hand in hand they stood round the administration of Washington, and felt his own sfreat 
arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the 
growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds 
of which that same great arm never scattered. 

^Ir. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts: she needs none. 
There she is. Behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history: the world 
knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lex- 
ington, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, 
fallen in the great struggle for Independence, now lie minofled with the soil of every State, 
from New Enirland to Georgia ; and there thev will lie forever. 



FEEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



335 



And, sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nur- 
tured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its 
original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it ; if party strife and blind ambition 
shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary 
i-estraint, shall succeed in separating it from that Union by which alone its existence is made 
sure, — it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked; 
it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who 
gather round it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest monuments of its 
own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. 

Daniel Webster. 




SOUTH OAROLIIsrA. 

F there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, — and I say it not 
in a boastful spirit, — that may challenge comparison with any other, 
for a uniform, zealous, ardent, uncalculating devotion to the Union, that 
State is South Carolina. Sir, from the very commencement of the 
Revolution, up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she 
has not cheerfully made; no service she has hesitated to perform. 
She has adhered to you in your prosperity; but, in your adversity, she 
has clung to you with more than filial affection. No matter what was 
the condition of her domestic affairs ; though deprived of her resources, 
divided by parties, or surrounded with difficulties, the call of the 
country has been to her as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased 
at the sound; — every man became at once reconciled to his brethren; and the sons of 
Carolina were all seen crowding together to the temple, bringing their gift to the altar 
of their common country. 

What, sir, was the conduct of the South during the Revolution ? Sir, I honor New 
England for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But great as is the praise which 
belongs to her, I think, at least, equal honor is due to the South. They espoused the 
quarrel of their brethren with a generous zeal, which did not suffer them to stop to 
calculate their interests in the dispute. Favorites of the mother country, possessed of 
neither ships nor seamen, to create a commercial relationship, they might have found 
in their situation, a guarantee that their trade would be forever fostered and protected 
by Great Britain. But, trampling on all consideration, either of interest or of safety, 
they rushed into the conflict; and fighting for principle, periled all in the sacred cause 
of freedom. 

Never were there exhibited in the history of the world, higher examples of noble 
daring, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance than by the Whigs of Carolina during 
the Revolution. The whole State, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an 
overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where 
they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. The "plains of Carolina" drank 
up the most precious blood of her citizens. Black and smoking ruins marked the 



336 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



places which had been the habitations of her children ! Driven from their homes into 
the gloomy and almost impenetrable swamps, — even there the spirit of liberty 
survived; and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumters and her 
Marions, proved by her conduct that though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of 
her people was invincible ! 

Egbert Youxg IIayxe. 



^^s 




HE gentleman from South Carolina taunts us with counting the costs of 
that war in which the liberties and honor of the country, and the 
interests of the North, as he asserts, were forced to go elsewhere for 
their defense. Will he sit down with me and count the cost now? 
Will he reckon up how much of treasure the State of South Carolina 
expended in that war, and how much the State of Massachusetts? — 
how much of the blood of either State was i^oured out on sea or 
land? I challenge the gentleman to the test of patriotism, which the 
army-roll, the navy-lists, and the treasury books, afford. Sir, they who 
revile us for our opposition to the last war, have looked only to the 
surface of things. They little know the extremities of suffering which 
the people of Massachusetts bore at that period, out of attachment to the Union, — 
their families beggared, their fathers and sons bleeding in camps, or pining in foreign 
prisons. They forget that not a field was marshaled on this side of the mountains, in 
which the men of Massachusetts did not play their part, as became their sires, and 
their "blood fetched from mettle of war proof." They battled and bled, wherever 
battle was fought or blood drawn. Nor only by land. I ask the gentleman: Who 
fought your naval battles in the last war? Who led you on to victory after victory, 
on the ocean and the lakes? Whose was the triumphant prowess before which the 
Red Cross of England paled with unwonted shames? Were they not men of New 
England? Were these not foremost in those maritime encounters which humbled the 
pride and power of Great Britain? 

I appeal to my colleague before me from our common county of brave old 
Essex, — I appeal to my res})ected colleagues from the shores of the Old Colony. 
Was there a village or a hamlet on Massachusetts Bay, which did not gather its hardy 
seamen to man the gun-decks of your ships of war? Did the^y not rally to the battle, 
as men flock to a feast ? 

In conclusion, I beseech the House to pardon me, if I may have kindled, on this 
subject, into something of unseemh" ardor. I cannot sit tamely by, in humble, 
acquiescent silence, when reflections, which I know to be unjust, are cast on the faith 
and honor of ^Massachusetts. Had I suffered them to pass Avithout admonition, I 
should have deemed that the disembodied spirits of her departed children, from their 
ashes mingled with the dust of every stricken field of the Eevolution, — from their 
bones mouldering to the consecrated earth of Bunker's Hill, of Saratoga, of IMonniouth, 



FEEEDOM .VXD PATEIOTISM. 



337 



would start up in visible shape, before lue, to cr^' shame on me, their recreant 
countryman. 

Sir, I have roamed through the world, to find hearts nowhere warmer than hers ; 
soldiers nowhere braver; patriots nowhere purer; wives and mothers nowhere truer; 
maidens nowhere lovelier ; green valleys and bright rivers nowhere greener or brighter ; 
and I will not be silent, when I hear her patriotism or her truth questioned with 
so much as a whisper of detraction. Living, I will defend her; dying, I would pause 
in my last expiring breath, to utter a prayer of fond remembrance for my native New 
England. 

Caleb Cushing. 



s©--^ 





E'ATIO^AL M0^UME:N'T TO WASHII^GTOE". 

[July 4th, 1S4S.] 

ELLOW-CITIZENS, let us seize this occasion to renew to each other our 
vows of allegiance and devotion to the American Union, and let us 
recognize in our common title to the name and the fame of Washineton, 
and in our common veneration for his example and his advice, the 
all-sufficient centripetal power, which shall hold the thick clusterino- 
stars of our confederacy in one glorious constellation forever ! Let 
the column which we are about to construct be at once a pledge and 
an emblem of perpetual union ! Let the foundations be laid, let the 
superstructure be built up and cemented, let each stone be raised and 
riveted, in a spirit of national brotherhood ! And may the earliest rays 
of the rising sun — till that sun shall set to rise no more — draw forth 
from it daily, as from the fabled statue of antiquity, a strain of national harmony, which 
shall strike a responsive chord in every heart throughout the republic ! 

Proceed, then, fellow-citizens, with the work for which you have assembled. Lay 
the corner-stone of a monument which shall adequately bespeak the gratitude of the 
whole American people to the illustrious father of his country ! Build it to the skies ; 
you cannot outreach the loftiness of his principles ! Found it upon the massive and 
eternal rock ; you cannot make it more enduring than his fame ! Construct it of the 
peerless Parian marble; you cannot make it purer than his life! Exhaust upon it the 
rules and principles of ancient and of modern art ; you cannot make it more proportionate 
than his character. 

But let not your homage to his memory end here. Think not to transfer to a tablet 
or a column the tribute which is due from ^yourselves. Just honor to Washington can 
only be rendered by observing his precepts and imitating his example. 8imilitudine 
decoremus. He has built his own monument. We, and those who come after us, m 
successive generations, are its appointed, its privileged guardians. The Avide-sproad 
republic is the future monument to Washington. Maintain its independence. Ui)hold 
its constitution. Preserve its union. Defend its libertv. Let it stand before the 
world in all its original strength and beauty, securing peace, order, equality and freedom. 



338 



THE GOLDEX ITIE.VSUIIY. 



to all within its boundaries, and shedding light and hope and joy upon the pathway' of 
human liberty throughout the world — and AYashington needs no other monument. 
Other structures may fully testify our veneration for him; this, this alone can adequately 
illustrate his services to mankind. 

Xor does he need even this. The republic may perish; the wide arch of our Union 
may fall ; star by star its glories may expire ; stone by stone its columns and its capitol 
may molder and crumble ; all other names which adorn its annals may be forgotten ; 
but as long as human hearts shall anjnvhere pant, or human tongues anj'where plead, 
for a true, rational, constitutional liberty, those hearts shall enshrine the memory, and 
those tongues prolong the fame, of George "Washixgtox. 

Egbert C. Wixthrop. 

APOCALYPSE.* 



||y^TRAIGHT to his heart the bullet crushed ; 
^ Dowu from his breast the red blood gushed, 
Aud o"er his face a glorj" rushed. 

A sudden spasm shook his frame, 
And in his ears there went aud came 
A sound as of devom-ing flame. 

Which in a moment ceased, and then 
The great light clasped his brows again, 
So that they shone like Stephen's when 

Saul stood apart a little space 

And shook with shuddering awe to trace 

God's splendors settling o'er his face. 

Thus, like a king, erect in pride. 

Eaising clean hands toward heaven, he cried ; 

"All hail the Stars aud Stripes I " aud died. 

Died grandly. But before he fell — 
(O blessedness ineffable I) 
Vision apocal\i)tical 

Was granted to him. and his eyes, 
All radiant a\ ith glad surprise, 
Looked forward through the Centtu-ies, 

And saw the seeds which sages cast 
lu the world's soil in cycles past, 
Spring up and blossom at the last ; 



Saw how the souls of men had grown. 
And where the scythes of Truth had mown 
Clear space for Libertj's white throne: 

Saw how. by soitow tried and proved. 
The blackening stains had been removed 
Forever from the land he loved : 

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned. 

And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound. 
Gasping its life out on the ground. 

* * * * * * ■ :> 

With far-off vision gazing clear 
Beyond this gloomy atmosphere 
'VMiich shuts us in with doubt aud fear. 

He — marking how her high increase 
Ran greatening in perpetual lease 
Through balmj' j-ears of odorous Peace — 

Greeted in one transcendent ciy 

Of intense, passionate ecstacy 

The sight which thrilled him utterly; 

Saluting with most proud disdain 
Of murder and of moi till i:)ain. 
The ^•ision which shall be again ! 

So. lifted ^\ith prophetic pride. 

Raised conquering hands toward heaven aud 

cried : 
"All hail the Stars and Stripes I " and died. 

Richard Eealk. 



pipTHE wretched have no country ; that dear name 
^i^_ Comprises home, kind kindred, fostering 
"4?^ friends, 

Ji Protecting laws, all that binds man to man. 



^LL private Airtue is the public fund : 
__ As that abounds, the state decays or thrives: 
fV^ Each should contribute to the general stock, 
J'l Aud who lends most is most his country's 
friend. 



♦Private Arthur Ladd, Sixth Mass. Vols., killed in the attack of the Haltiiiiore i:iob upon his reg^inient, April 19, iS<5i, was the first 
life sacrificed to the war. 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



339 



OUR HEEOIO DEAD. 



jHHERE is a history in almost every home in Massachusetts, which will never be 
written. But the memory of kindred has it embalme<l forever. The representa- 
6lJ:SJ) tives of the pride and hope of uncounted households, departing, will return no 
|f more. The shaft of the archer, attracted by the shining mark, numbei's them 
among his fallen. In the battles of Big Bethel, of Bull Run, of Ball's Bluff, of 
Eoanoke Island, of Newbern, of Winchester, of Yorktown, of Williamsburg, of West 
Point, of Fair Oaks, the battles before Richmond, from Mechanicsville to Malvern Hill, 
of James' Island, of Baton Rouge, of Cedar Mountain, of Bull Run again, of Chantilly, 
of Washington in North Carolina, of South Mountain, of Antietam, of Fredericksburo- 
and Goldsborough, — through all the capricious fortunes of the war the regiments of 
Massachusetts have borne her flag by the side of the banner of the Union. And, beyond 
the Atlantic slope, every battle-field has drunk the blood of her sons, nurtured among her 
hills and sands, from which in adventurous manhood they turned their footsteps to the West. 
Officers and enlisted men have vied with each other in deeds of valor. The flag, whose 
standard-bearer, shot down in battle, tossed it from his dying hand nerved by undying 
patriotism, has been caught by the comrade, who in his turn has closed his eyes for the 
last time upon its starry folds as another hero-martyr clasped the splintered staff and 
rescued the symbol at once of country and of their blood-bought fame. 

How can fleeting words of human praise gild the record of their glory ? Our eyes 
suffused with tears, and blood retreating to the heart, stirred with unwonted thrill, speak 
with the eloquence of nature, uttered, but unexpressed. From the din of the battle they 
have passed to the peace of eternity. Farewell ! warrior, citizen, patriot, lover, friend, — 
whether in the humbler ranks or bearing the sword of official power, whether private ,^ 
captain, surgeon or chaplain, for all these in the heady fight have passed away, — Hail I 
and farewell ! Each hero must sleep serenely on the field where he fell in a cause "sacred 
to liberty and the rights of mankind." 

"Worn by no wasting, lingering pain, 
No cold gradations of decaj\ 
Death broke at once the vital chain. 
And freed his soul the nearest way.* 

John A. Andrew. 



i^y~£_ 



:iak: 



m 

it 



|iOW sleep the bravo, avIio sink to rest, 



By all their country's wishes blest! 
"WTien Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 



B}^ fairy hands their knell is rung. 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there. 



340 



THE GOLDEN JEEA.SUET. 





SECOXD IXAi:GrT.AL ADDEESS. 

[March 4, 1S65J. 

ELLOW-COUXTEY^rEX:— At this second appearing to take the oath 
of the presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended 
address than there was at the first. Then, a statement, somewhat 
in detail, of a course to be pursued seemed very fitting and proper. 
Xow", at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations 
have constantly been called forth on every point and phase of the 
great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the 
energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The 
progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well 
known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably 
satisfactory and encouraging to all. "With high hope for the future, 
no prediction in regard to it is ventured. On the occasion corresjionding to this four 
years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded 
it, all sought to avoid it. ^Vhile the inaugural address was being delivered from this 
place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without Avar, insurgent agents were in 
the city seeking to destroy it without war, seeking to dissolve the Union, and divide 
the effects by negotiation. 

Both parties deprecated war: but one of them would make war rather than let 
the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish; and 
the war came. One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed 
generally over the Union, but located in the southern pai't of it. These slaves 
constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was 
somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest 
was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union by war, while 
ofovernment claimed no risfht to do more than to restrict the territorial enlarsrement 
of it. Xeither part_\' expected the magnitude or the duration which it has already 
attained. Xeither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease even before 
the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result 
less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same 
God, and each invokes his aid against the other. It may seem strange that any 
man should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing his bread from the 
sweat of other men's faces. But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The 
prayer of both should not be answered. That of neither has been answered 
fully. The Almighty has his omu purposes. " AYoe unto the world because of 
offences, for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe unto that man by 
whom the offence cometh." 

If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these offences, which, in the 
proA*idence of God must needs come, but which, having continued through his appointed 
time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both Xoi-th and South this terrible 
war as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein 
any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always 
ascribe to him ? 



FREEDOM AjSTD PATRIOTISM. 341 

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may 
speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by 
the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until 
every drop of blood drawn Avith the lash shall be paid by another drawn by the 
sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that the judg- 
ments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. 

With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God 
gives us to see the right, let us strive on, to finish the work Ave are in, to bind up the 
nation's Avound, to care for him Avho shall have borne the battle, and for his AvidoAv 
and his orphans, to do all Avhich may achicA^e and cherish a just and a lasting peace 
among ourselves and Avith all nations. 

Abraha^m Lincoln. 



DEDICATIOl^ OF GETTTSBUEG CEMETEEY. 

ippOURSCOEE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new 
J^llo nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are 
^'Wi created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that 
|T ^ nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are 
met on a great battlefield of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as 
the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. 

It is altogether fitting and proper that Ave should do this. But in a larger sense Ave 
cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot halloAV this ground. The brave men, 
living and dead, Avho struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or 
detract. The world Avill little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never 
forget what they did here. 

It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished Avork they have 
thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task 
remaining before us, that from these honored dead Ave take increased devotion to the cause 
for which they gave the last full measure of devotion ; that Ave here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a ncAv birth 
of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people,, 
shall not perish from the earth. 

Abraham Lincoln. 



GETTYSBURG MONUMENT. 

|^^:iS men beneath some pang of grief, To-day a nation meets to bnild 

® ' ' " Or snddeu joj' will dumbly stand, A nation's trophy to the dead. 

Finding no words to give relief Who, living, formed her sword and shield, 

Clear, passion-warm, complete, and brief, The arms she sadly learned to wield, 

To thoughts Avith which their souls expand, When other hope of peace had fled ; 

So here to-day those trophies nigh. And not alone for those Avho lie 

Xo fitting words ovir lips can reach ; In honored graves before us blest. 

The hills around, the graves, the sky, Shall our proud column broad and high,. 

The silent poem of the eye. Climb upward to the blessing skj-, 

Siu'passes all the art of speech! But be for all a monument. 




342 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



An emblem of our grief as well 

For others, as for these, we raise; 

For these beneath our feet who dwell, 

And all who in the good cause fell. 

On other fields in other frays. 

To all the self-same love we bear 

"WTiieh here for marbled memory strives; 

Xo soldier for a wreath would care. 

Which all true conn-ades miglit not share, — 

Brothers in death as in their lives. 

On southern hillsides, parched and brown. 
In tangled s\vani])s, on verdant ridge, 
■yVliere pines and broadening oaks look down 
And jasmine waves its yellow crown. 
And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge. 
Along the shoi-es of endless sand. 
Beneath the palms of southern plains, 
Sleep everywhere, hand locked in hand, 
The brothers of the gallant band 
Who here poured life through throbbing veins. 

Around the closing eyes of all. 
The same red glories glared and flew; 
The hurrying flags, the bugle call, 
The whistle of the angrj- ball. 
The elbow-touch of comrade true, 
The skirmish fire, a spattering spray. 
The long sharp growl of fire by file. 
The thickening fury of the fray 
When opening batteries get in play. 
And the lines form o'er many a mile. 

The foeman's yell, our answering cheer, 
Eed flashes through the gathering smoke, 
Swift orders, resonant and clear. 
Blithe cries from comrades, tried and dear, 
The shell-screani and the sabre stroke, 
The volley fire, from left to right. 
From right to left, we hear it swell, 
The headlong charges, swift and bright, 
The thick'ning tumult of the fight. 
And bursting thunders of the shell. 

Now closer, denser, grows the strife, 
And here we yield, and there we gain; 
The air with hurtling missiles rife. 
Volley for vollev. life for life; 
Xo time to heed the cries of pain. 
Panting, as up the hills Ave charge, 
Or down them as we broken roll, 
Life never felt so high, so large. 
And never o'er so wide a range 
In triumph swept the kindling soul. 

Xew raptures waken in the breast. 
Amid this hell of scene and sound. 
The barking batteries never rest. 
And broken foot, by horsemen pressed, 
Still stubbornly contest their ground ; 



Fresh waves of battle rolling in. 
To take the place of shattered waves? 
Torn lines that grow more bent and thin, 
A blinding cloud, a maddening din, — 
'Twas then we filled these ver^- graves. 

Night falls at length with pitying veil, 
A moonlit silence, deep and fresh. 
These upturned faces, stained and pale, 
Vainly the chill night dcAvs assail; 
Far colder than the dews their flesh. 
And flickering far, through brush and Avood, 
Go searching parties, torch in hand. 
"Seize if you can some rest and food. 
At dawn the figlit Avill be renewed, — 
Sleep on your arms! " the hushed command. 

They talk in Avhispers as the.y lie 

In line, these rough and Avearj' men. 

" Dead or but Avounded?" then a sigh; 

'•No coffin either? " " Guess will try 

To get those tAVO guns back again." 

" We'A^e five flags to their one, oho ! " 

"That bridge! "Twas not there as Me passed." 

"The Colonel dead? It can't be so. 

Wounded, badly, that I know. 

But he kept his saddle to the last." 

" Be sure to send it, if I fall." 

"Any tobacco? Bill, have you? " 

"A brown-haired, blue-eyed laughing doll." 

" Good-night, boys, and God keep you all." 

" "What, sound asleep? Guess I"ll sleep too." 

" Aye, just about this hour they pray 

For dad." "Stop talking, pass the Avord." 

And soon as quiet as the clay 

Which thousands will but be next day. 

The long-drawn sighs of sleep are heard. 

Oh! men, to Avhom this sketch, though rude. 

Calls back some scene of pain and pride; 

Oh ! widow, hugging cflose your brood, 

Oh! wife, Avith happiness renewed. 

Since he again is at your side ; 

This trophy that to-day we raise 

Should be a monument for all. 

And on its side no niggard phrase 

Confine a generous nation's praise. 

To those who here have chanced to fall. 

But let us all to-day combine 
Still other monuments to raise ; 
Here for the dead we build a shrine. 
And now to those Avho crippled pine 
Let us give hope of happier days. 
Let homes of those sad wrecks of war 
Through all the land Avith speed arise; 
They cry from eA^ery gaping soar. 
"Let not our brother's tomb debar 
The wounded living: from A'our eves." 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



343 



A noble day, a deed as good, 

A noble scene in which 'tis done, 

The birthday of our nationhood. 

And here again the nation stood. 

On this same day its life was won! 

A bloom of banners in the air, 

A double calm of sky and soul, 

Triumjihal chant and bugle blare, 

And green fields spreading bright and fair, 

As heavenward our hosaunas roll. 



Hosannas far a land redeemed. 
The bayonet sheathed, the cannon dumb ! 
Passed as some horror we have dreamed. 
The fiery meteoi'S that here streamed 
Threafning within our homes to come! 
Again our banner fioats abroad. 
Gone the one stain that on it fell ; 
And bettered bj^ his chast'ning rod. 
With streaming eyes uplift to God, 
We say, •' He doeth all things well." 

Charles G. Halpink 



CEI^TEI^I^IAL OEATIOI^. 



[Peroration from the oration delivered upon the occasion of the Centennial Anniversary of 

the meeting of the first Colonial Congress in Carpenter's 

Hall, Philadelphia.] 



HE conditions of life are always changing, and the experience of the 
fathers is rarely the experience of the sons. The temptations which are 
trying us are not the temptations which beset their footsteps, nor the 
dangers which threaten our pathway the dangers which surrounded 
them. These men were few in number; we are many. They were 
poor, but we are rich. They were weak, but we are strong. What is 
it, countrymen, that we need to-day? Wealth? Behold it in your 
hands. Power? God hath given it to you. Liberty? It is your 
birthright. Peace? It dwells amongst you. You have a Government 
founded in the hearts of men, built by the people for the common 
good. You have a land flowing with milk and honey ; your homes are 
happy, your workshops busy, your barns are full. The school, the 
railway, the telegraph, the printing press, have welded you together 
into one. Descend those mines that honeycomb the hills ! Behold 
that commerce whitening every sea ? Stand by yon gates and see that 
multitude pour through them from the corners of the earth, grafting the qualities of older 
stocks upon one stem; mingling the blood of many races in a common stream, and 
swelling the rich volume of our English speech with varied music from an hundred 
tongues. You have a long and glorious historj^ a past glittering with heroic deeds, an 
ancestry full of lofty and imperishable examples. You have ]:)assed through danger, 
endured privation, been acquainted with sorrow, been tried hy suffering. You have jour- 
neyed in safety through the wilderness and crossed in triumph the Red Sea of civil strife, 
and the foot of him who led you hath not faltered, nor the light of his countenance been 
turned away. 

It is a question for us now, not of the founding of a new government, but of the 
preservation of one already old : not of the formation of an independent power, but of 
the purification of a nation's life; not of the conquest of a foreign foe, but of the sub- 
jection of ourselves. The capacity of man to rule himself is to be proven in the days to 
come, not by the greatness of his wealth ; not by his valor in the field; not by the extent 
of his dominion, nor by the splendor of his genius. The dangers of to-day come from 




344 THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 

within. The worship of self, the love, of power, the lust for gold, the weakening of faith, 
the decay of public virtue, the lack of private worth — these are the perils which threaten 
our future ; these are the enemies we have to fear ; these are the traitors which infest the 
camp; and the danger was far less when Cataline knocked with his army at the gates of 
Rome, than when he sat smiling in the Senate House. We see them daily face to face; in 
the walk of virtue ; in the road to wealth ; in the path to honor ; on the way to happiness. 
There is no peace between them and our safety. Nor can we avoid them and turn back. 
It is not enough to rest upon the past. No man or nation can stand still. "We must 
mount upward or go down. We must grow worse or better. It is the eternal law — Ave 
cannot change it. 

******** 

The century that is opening is all our own. The years that lie before us are a virgin 
page. We can inscribe them as we will. The future of our country rests upon us; the 
happiness of posterity depends upon us. The fate of humanity may be in our hands. 
That pleading voice, choked with the sobs of ages, which has so often spoken to deaf ears, 
is lifted up to us. It asks us to be brave, benevolent, consistent, ti'ue to the teachings of 
our history, proving "divine descent by worth divine." It asks us to be virtuous — build- 
ing up public virtue by private worth ; seeking that righteousness w^hich exalteth nations. 
It asks us to be patriotic — loving our country before all other things; her happiness our 
happiness, her honor ours, her fame our own. It asks us, in the name of justice, in the 
name of charity, in the name of freedom, in the name of God. 

My countrymen, this anniversary has gone by forever, and my task is done. While 
I have spoken, the hour has passed from us; the hand has moved ui)on the dial, and the 
old century is dead. The American Union hath endured an hundred years ! Here, on 
this threshold of the future, the voice of humanity shall not plead to us in vain. There 
shall be darkness in the days to come ; danger for our courage ; temptation for our virtue ; 
doubt for our faith; suffering for our fortitude. A thousand shall fall before us, and tens 
of thousands at our right hand. The years shall pass beneath our feet, and century follow 
century in quick succession. The generations of men shall come and go ; the greatness of 
yesterday shall be forgotten to-day ; and the glories of this noon shall vanish before 
to-morrow's sun; but America shall not perish, but endure while the spirit of our fathers 
animates their sons. 

Hexry Armitt Broavx. 



THE POWER OF ELOQUEI^CE. 

*^^jXE of the most celebrated sayings of President Garfield was uttered in the first hours 
of the wild fever that followed the death of President Lincoln. Fifty thousand 
excited men crowded around the Exchange building in Wall Street to hear how the 
^ President died. So wrought up were the listeners that two men who ventured to 
say that Lincoln ought to have been shot, lay bleeding, dying upon the pavement. 
This fired the vengeance of the crowd. Suddenly a shout arose, "The World ! "' 
"The office of the World I" and ten thousand men faced in the direction of that ofiice. It 
was a critical moment. To what lengths of destructiveness the croAvd might go, no one 



FREEDO]M AND PATRIOTISM. 



345 



could foresee. Police and military would have availed little or arrived too late. Just at 
this juncture a man stepped forward with a small flag in his hand, and beckoned to the 
crowd. "Another telegram from Washington," and the crowd hushed into eager silence. 
Then, in the awful stillness of the crisis, taking advantage of the hesitation of the half-mad 
men, a right arm was lifted skyward, and a voice, clear and steady, loud and distinct, 
uttered these words — which instantly hushed the angry human sea, and brought men face 
to face again with their reasons : 

"Fellow-citizens! Clouds and darkness are round about Him! His pavilion is dark 
waters and thick clouds of the skies ! Justice and judgment are the establishment of His 
throne ! Mercy and truth shall go before His face ! Fellow-citizens ! God reigns, and 
the Government at Washington still lives ! " 

DS— &J 



IN STATE. 



»i KEEPER of the Sacred Key, 
^^ Aud the Great Seal of Destiny, 
^^ Whose eye is the bhie canopy, 
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what 
the end will be. 

" Lo, through the wintry atmosphere. 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear ; 
And .all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's 
shield, or sheeted bier. 

''And on that vast aud hollow field, 
"With both lips closed and both eyes sealed, 
A mighty Figure is revealed, — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the 
hollow of a shield. 

" The winds have tied the drifted snow 
Around the face and chin ; and lo. 
The sceptred Giants come and go. 
And shake their shadowy crowns and say : ' We 
always feared it ^\•ould be so ! ' 

" She came of au heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace. 
Like two in one seem to embrace, 
And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, in her 
colossal form and face. 

'• VVliere can her dazzling falchion be? 
One hand is fallen in the sea ; 
The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free ; 
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the 
depths resplendently. 

" And by the other, in its rest. 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasped forever to her breast ; 
And of her silver helmet, lo ! a soaring eagle is the 
crest. 

22 



''And on her brow, a softened light. 
As of a star concealed from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white, 
Or of the i-ising moon behind the rainy vapors of the 
night. 

"The Sisterhood that was so sweet. 
The Starry System sphered complete. 
Which the mazed Orient used to greet. 
The Four-aud-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter 
at her feet. 

" And over her — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal — 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield 
of all. 

II. 
"Three cold, bright moons have inarched and 

wheeled 
And the white cerement that revealed 
A Figure stretched upon a Shield, 
Is turned to verdure ; aud the land is now one mighty 
battle-field. 

"And lo! the children which she bred. 
And more than all else cherished, 
To make them true in heart and head. 
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords 
crossed above the dead. 

"Each hath a mighty stroke and sti'ide: 
One true — the more that he is tried; 
The other dark and evil-eyed ; — 
And by the hand of one of them his own dear Mother 
surely died ! 

" A stealthy step, a gleam of hell,— 
It is the simple truth to tell, — 
The Son stabbed, and the Mother fell; 
And so she lies, all mute and jjale, and pure and irre- 
proachable ! 



34() 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



•• Aud then the battle-trumpet blew; 
And the true brother sprang aud drew 
His blade to smite the traitor through ; 
And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night 
sweated bloody dew. 

"And all their children, far and wide, 
That are so greatly multiplied. 
Rise up in frenzy and divide ; 
And choosing each whom he will serve, unsheathe the 
sword and take their side. 

'• And in the low sun's bloodshot rays, 
Portentous of the coming days, 
The two great Oceans blush and blaze. 
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in 
crimson haze. 

"Now wliichsoever stand or fall, 
As God is great, and man is small, 
The Truth shall triumph over all : 
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall tiiumph 
over all ! 

III. 
" I see the champion sword-strokes flash; 
I see them fall and hear them clash ; 
I hear the murderous engines crash ; 
I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's 
bloody sash. 

" I see the torn and mangled corse, 
The dead and dying heaped in scores, 
The headless rider by his horse. 
The wounded captive bayoneted through and through 
\\ithout remorse. 

" I hear the dying sufferer cry. 
With his crushed face turned to the sky ; 
I see him crawl in agony 
To the foul pool, and bow his head into, the bloody 
slime, and die. 



To 



" I see the assassin crouch and fire; 
I see his victim fall — expire ; 
I see the murderer creeping nigher 
strip the dead. He turns the head — the face! 
The son beholds his sire ! 



"I hear the curses aud the thanks; 
I see the mad charge on the flanks. 
The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks. 
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the 
river's bridgeless banks. 

" I see the death-gripe on the plain. 
The grappling monsters on the main, 
The tens of thousands that are slain. 
And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart 
and brain. 

" I see the dark aud bloody spots. 
The crowded rooms and crowded cots. 
The bleaching bones, the battle blots. — 
And wTit on many a nameless grave, a legend of for- 
get-me-nots. 

" I see the goi-ged prison-den. 
The dead-line aud the pent-up pen. 
The thousands quartered in the fen. 
The living deaths of skiu aud bone that were the 
goodly shapes of men. 

"And stiU the bloody dew nuist fall! 
Aud His great Darkness with the Pall 
Of His dread Judgment cover all. 
Till the Dead Nation rise transformed by Truth to 
triumph over all ! 

"And last — and last I see — the Deed." 
Thus saith the Keeper of the Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
^Vliose eye is the blue canopy. 
And leaves the Pall of His greatDarkness over all the 
Land and Sea. 

FORCEYTHE WiLLSON. 






THE MEAl^Ii^G OF OUE FLAG. 

[From Decoration-Day Address, New York, May 30, 1SS2.J 



^ELE flag for which the hei'oes fought, for which they died, is the symbol of all we 
are, of all we hope to be. It is the emblem of equal rights. It means free 
hands, free lips, self-government, and the sovereignty of the individual. It 
means that this continent has been dedicated to freedom. It means universal 
education — light for every mind, knowledge for every child. It means that the 
school-house is the fortress of liberty. It means that "governments derive their just 
powers from the consent of the governed ; ' ' that each man is accountable to and for 
the Government ; that responsibility goes hand in hand with liberty. It means that it 
is the duty of every citizen to bear his share of the public burden — to take part in 
the affairs of his town, his county, his State, and his country. It means that the ballot- 



FEEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



347 



box is the ark of the covenant; that the source of authority must not be poisoned. 
It means the perpetual right of peaceful revolution. It means that every citizen of the 
Republic, native or naturalized, must be protected at home in every State, abroad in 
every land, on every sea. It means .that all distinctions based on birth or blood have 
l^erished from our laws; that our Government shall stand between labor and capital, 
between the weak and strong, between the individual and the corporation, between 
want and wealth, and give and guarantee simple justice to each and all. It means that 
there shall be a legal remedy for every wrong. It means national hospitality — that 
we must welcome to our shores the exiles of the world, and that we may not drive them 
back. Some may be deformed by labor, dwarfed by hunger, broken in spirit, victims of 
tyranny and caste — in whose sad faces may be read the touching record of a weary 
hfe — and yet their children, born of liberty and love, will be symmetrical and fair, 
intelligent and free. 

That flag is the emblem of a supreme will — of a nation's power. Beneath its 
folds the weakest must be protected and the strongest must obey. It shields and 
canopies alike the loftiest mansion and the rudest hut. That flag was given to the air 
in the Revolution's darkest days. It represents the sufferings of the past, the glories 
yet to be, and, like the bow of heaven, it is the child of storm and sun. 

Ingersoll. 

•<!'• ^^(^^ ■'I'- 



E PLURIBUS UNUM. 



||M;HOUGIi iiuiny and bright are the stars that 
M^ appear 

''^Y'" In that ttau- by our country unfurled, 
K And the stripes that are swelling in majesty 
there, 
Like a rainbow adorning the world — 
Their light is unsullied as those in the sky. 

By a deed that our fathers have done, 
And they're linked in as true and as holy a tie, 
In their motto of "Many in One." 

From the hour when those pati-iots fearlessly flung 

That banner of starlight abroad. 
Ever true to themselves, to that motto they clung 

As they clung to the promise of God. 
By the baj^onet traced at the midnight of war, 

On the fields where our glory was won — 
Oh ! perish the heart or the hand that would mar 

Our motto of "Many in One." 

'Mid the smoke of the conflict, the cannon's deep 
roar. 
How oft it has gathered renown ! 
While those stars were i-eflected in rivers of gore. 

WTiei'e the cross and the lion went down ; 
And thougli few were their lights in the gloom of 
that hour. 
Yet the hearts that were striking below 
Had God for their bulwark, and truth for their 
power. 
And they stopped not to number their foe. 



From where our green mountain-tops blend with 
tlie sky, 

And the giant St. Lawrence is rolled. 
To the waves where the balmy Hesperides lie. 

Like the dream of some prophet of old. 
They conquered, and, dying, bequeathed to our 
care 

Not this boundless dominion alone. 
But that banner whose loveliness hallows the air, 

And their motto of "Many in One." 

We are many in one, while there glitters a star 

In the blue of the heavens above, 
And tyrants shall quail, "mid their dungeons afar. 

When they gaze on that motto of love, 
[t shall gleam o'er the sea, "mid the bolts of the 
storm. 

Over tempest, and battle, and wreck, — 
And flame where our guns with their thunder grow 
warm, 

'Neath the blood on the slippery deck. 

The oppressed of the earth to that standard shall flj', 

AVherever its folds shall be spread. 
And the exile shall feel 'tis his own native sky. 

Where its stars shall wave over his head : 
And those stars shall increase till the fulness of time 

Its millions of cycles have run. — 
Till the world shall have welcomed their mission 
sublime. 

And the nations of Qarth shall be one. 



348 



THE GOLDEX TREASUKY. 



Though the old Alleghany may tower to heaven. 

And the Father of Waters di^■lde, 
The links of our destiny cannot be riven 

■\Miile the truth of those words shall abide. 
Oh! then, let them glow on each helmet and 
brand, 

ITiough our blood like oiir rivers should run; 
Divide as we maj- in our own native laud, 

To the rest of the world we are one. 



ITieu, up with our flag I — let it stream on the air; 

Though our fathers ai-e cold in their graves, 
Thej' had hands that could strike, thej^ had souls 
that could dare. 

And their sons were not born to be slaves, 
Up, up with that banner I — where'er it may call. 

Our millions shall rally around. 
And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall. 

■When its stars shall be ti-ailed on the ground. 
Georgk W. Cutter. 



^^i- 




THE A]\iEEIOA]^ FLAG. 



THOUGHTFUL mind, when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag only, 
but the nation itself; and whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he 
reads chiefly in the flag the government, the principles, the truths, the 
history, which belong to the nation that sets it forth. 

Allien the French tricolor rolls out to the wind, we see France. 
When the new-found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. 
When the other three-cornered Huno-arian flas; shall be lifted to the wind, 
we shall see in it the long-buried but never dead principles of Hungarian 
liberty. "NMien the united crosses of St. Andrew and St. George on a 
fiery ground set forth the banner of Old England, we see not the cloth 
merely ; there rises up before the mind the noble aspect of that monarches 
which, more than any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for 
libert}^ law, and national prosperity. 
This nation has a banner too ; and Avherever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak 
bursting on their eyes, for the American flag has been the symbol of liberty, and men 
rejoiced in it. Not q,nother flag on the globe had such an errand, or went forth upon the 
sea, carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope for the captive and such glorious 
tidings. 

The stars upon it were to the pining nations like the morning stars of God, and the 
stripes upon it were beams of morning light. 

As at early dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows light, and then, as the sun 
advances, that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and 
intense white strivinoj togjether and ribbing the horizon with bars effulo;ent, so on the 
American flag, stars and beams of many colored light shine out together. And wherever 
the flag comes, and men behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry, no rampant lion and 
fierce eagle, but only light, and every fold significant of liberty. 

The history of this banner is all on one side. Under it rode Washington and his 
armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on the highlands at "West 
Point ; it floated over old Fort Montgomery. "NMien Arnold would have sui-rendered these 
valuable fortresses and precious legacies, his night was turned into day, and his treachery 
was driven away, by the beams of light from this starry banner. 

It cheered our army, driven from New York, in their solitary pilgrimage through New 



FREEDOM AJ<iT> PATEIOTISM. 349 

Jersey. It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed the waters, 
rolling with ice at Trenton ; and when its stars gleamed in the cold morning with victory, 
a new day of hope dawned on the despondency of the nation. And when, at length, the 
long years of war Avere drawing to a close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner 
sat Washington while Yorktown sui'rendered its hosts, and our Revolutionaxy struggles 
ended with victory. 

Let us then twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our country's flag about our 
heartstrings ; and looking upon our homes, and catching the spirit that breathes upon us 
from the battle-fields of our fathers, let us resolve, come weal or woe, we will, in life and 
in death, now and forever, stand by the stars and stripes. They have been unfurled from 
the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the INIontezumas and 
amid the solitude of every sea; and everywhere, as the luminous symbol of resistless and 
beneficent power, they have led the brave to victory and to glory. They have floated over 
our cradles; let it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float over our graves. 

Henry WAl^D Beecher. 




OUR COUl^TEY. 

I^kJY countrymen ! the moments are quickly passing, and we stand like some 
traveler upon a lofty crag that separates two boundless seas. The century 
that is closing is complete. "The past," said ^^our great statesman, "is 
secure." It is finished and beyond our reach. The hand of detraction cannot 
dim its glories, nor the tears of repentance wipe away its stains. Its good and 
evil, its joy and sorrow, its truth and falsehood, its honor and its shame, we 
cannot touch. Sigh for them, blush for them, weep for them, if we will, we cannot 
change them now. The old century is dying and they are to be buried with him; his 
history is finished and they will stand upon its roll forever. 

The century that is opening is all our own. The j^ears that are before us arc a 
virgin page. We can inscribe them as we will. The future of our country rests upon 
us. The happiness of posterity depends on us. The fate of humanity may be in our 
hands. That pleading voice, choked with the sobs of ages, which has so often spoken 
to deaf ears, is lifted up to us. It asks us to be brave, benevolent, consistent, true to 
the teachings of our history, proving " divine descent by worth divine." It asks us 
to be virtuous, building up public virtue upon private worth ; seeking that righteousness 
which exalteth nations. It asks us to be patriotic, loving our country before all other 
things; making her happiness our happiness, her honors ours, her fame our own. It 
asks us in the name of Charity, in the name of Freedom, in the name of God! 

Henry Armitt Brown. 



^^■UT M hat avail her unexhausted stores, ^^^-'■"^■'^■^'^ honor or where conscience does not 

§^i^ Her blooming- mountains, and her sunny shores, ^SPS bind, 

With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, No other tie shall shackle me ; 

The smiles of nature and the charms of art. Slave to myself I 'svill not be ; 

If proud oppression in her valley reigns, Nor shall my futiu-e actions be confined 

And tyranny usurps her happy plains? By my own present mind. 



850 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 




LIBERTY AXD UlsriOIsr. 

[.S30.] 

PROFESS, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in A'iew the 
prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our 
Federal Union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our 
consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly 
indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our countr}'. That union 
we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of 
adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, 
prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences 
these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang 
forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with 
fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings ; and although our territory 
has stretched out wider and wider, and our i^opulation spread farther and farther, they have 
not outrun its ])rotection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of 
national, social, and personal happiness. 

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden 
in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly Aveighed the chances of preserving liberty, 
when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed 
myself to hang oA'cr the precipice of disunion, to see Avhether, with m}' shoi't sight, I can 
fathom the depth of the abyss below : nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the 
affairs of this government, Avhose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how 
the union should be preserA^ed, but hoAV tolerable might be the condition of the people, 
Avhen it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, 
gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek 
not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. 
God grant that on my vision ncA'er maybe opened Avhat lies behind. When my eyes shall 
be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shininfj on the 
broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union ; on States disscA^ered, 
discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fi'aternal 
blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of 
the republic, noAV known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its 
arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre: not a stripe erased or polluted, not a 
single star obscured, — bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as, What is 
all this worth? nor those other Avords of delusion and folly: Liberty first, and union 
afterwards; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of liA'ing light, blazing on all its 
ample folds, as they float OA'er the sea and OA'er the land, and in eAxry Avind under the Avhole 
heaA^ens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart: Liberty and union, noAV 
and forever, one and inseparable ! 

Daniel Webster. 



iEREDIT.VEY bondsmen ! knoAV ye not, 
AMio Mould ])e free, themseh-es mnst strike the 
blow? 



nQTOR Freedom's battle, once begun, 
s^ is Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, 
Though baflied oft, is ever avou. 



FKEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM, 351 

THE SHIP OF STATE. 

^HhOU, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

^^ Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock: 

^^^ Humanity, with all its fears, 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

il With aU the hopes of future years. And not a rent made by the gale ! 

I Is hanging breathless on thy fate! In spite of rock and tempest's roar — 

I We know what master laid thy keel, In spite of false lights on the shore — 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

"Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

In what a forge and Avhat a heat Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Wei-e shaped the anchors of thy hope ! Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

Henky Wadswokth Longfellow. 

N=g-^^ 



THE TRUE PATRIOT. 

j^EITHER Montaigne in writing his essays, nor Descartes in building new worlds, 
nor Burnet in framing an antediluvian earth, no, nor Newton in discovering and 
establishing the true laws of nature on experiment and a sublimer geometry, 
felt more intellectual joys than he feels who is a real patriot, who bends all 
the force of his understanding, and directs all his thoughts and actions to the 
good of his country. When such a man forms a political scheme, and adjusts various 
and seemingly independent parts in it to one great and good design, he is transported 
by imagination, or absorbed in meditation, as much and as agreeably as they; and the 
satisfaction that arises from the different importance of these objects, in every step of 
the work, is vastly in his favor. It is here that the speculative philosopher's labor 
and -pleasure end. But he who speculates in order to act, goes on and carries his 
scheme into execution. His labor continues, it varies, it increases; but so does his 
pleasure, too. The execution, indeed, is often traversed by unforeseen and untoward 
circumstances, by the perverseness or treachery of friends, and by the power or 
malice of enemies; but the first and the last of these animate, and the docility and 
fidelity of some men make amends for the perverseness and treachery of others. 
Whilst a great event is in suspense, the action warms, and the very suspense, made up 
of hope and fear, maintains no unpleasing agitation in the mind. If the event is decided 
successfully, such a man enjoys pleasure proportionable to the good he has done — 
a pleasure like to that which is attributed to the Supreme Being on a survey of his 
works. If the event is decided otherwise, and usurping courts or overbearing parties 
prevail, such a man has still the testimony of his conscience, and a sense of the honor 
he has acquired, to soothe his mind and suppoi't his courage. For although the course 
of state affairs be to those who meddle in them like a lottery, yet it is a lottery 
wherein no good man can be a loser; he may be reviled, it is true, instead of being 
applauded, and may suffer violence of many kinds. I will not say, like Seneca, that 
the noblest spectacle which God can behold is a virtuous man suffering, and struggling 
with afflictions; but this I will say, that the second Cato, driven out of the forum and 
dragged to prison, enjoyed more inward pleasure, and maintained more outward dignity, 
than they who insulted him, and who triumphed in the ruin of their country-. 

Lord Bolingbrokk. 



352 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



BOADICEA. 




'hen the British warrior queen. 
Bleeding from the Komau rods. 
Sought, with an indignant mien. 
Counsel of her couutrj-"s gods. 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoaiy chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief. 

"Princess! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

"Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

'•Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

"Rome, for empire far renown'd. 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

"Other Romans shall arise. 
Heedless of a soldier's name I 



Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

' Then the progeny that springs 

Fronr the forests of our laud, 
Arm"d with thunder, clad with wings. 
Shall a wider world command. 

"Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posteritj' shall sway; 
"Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they."' 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fii-e, 
Bending, as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful Ij're. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 
Felt them in her bosom glow; 

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; 
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. 

"RufRans, pitiless as proud. 
Heaven awards the vengeance due, 

Empire is on us bestow'd. 

Shame and ruin wait for you.'' 

AViLLIAM COWPEK. 



ENGLAND'S HEROES. 



I^^ET in this stormy Northern sea. 
^J Queen of these restless fields of tide> 
Englaud! what shall men say of thee. 
Before whose feet the worlds divide"? 

The earth, a brittle globe of glass. 

Lies in the hollow of thy hand. 
And through its heart of crystal pass, 

Like shadows through a twilight land, 
The spears of crimson-suited war. 

The long white-crested waves of fight, 
And all the deadly fires which are 

The torches of the lords of Night. 

The yellow leopards, strained and lean. 
The treacherous Russian knows so well. 

With gaping blackened jaws are seen 
Leap through the hail of screaming shell. 

The strong sea-lion of England's wars 
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, 

To battle with the storm that mars 
The star of England"s chivalry. 

The brazen-throated clarion bloMS 
Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 

And the high steeps of Indian snows 
Shake to the tread of armed men. 



And many an Afghan chief, who lies 
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees. 

Clutches his sword in fiei-ce surmise 
When on the mountain-side he sees 

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 

To tell how he hath heard afar 
The measured roll of English drums 

Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 

For southern wind and east wind meet 

^Miere. girt and crowned by sword and fire 

England with bare and bloody feet 
Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 

O lonely Himalayan height. 

Grey pillar of the Indian sky. 
AVhere saw'st thou last in clanging fight 

Our winged dogs of Victory? 

Tlie almond groves of Samarcand. 

Bokhara, where red lilies blow. 
And Oxus. by whose yellow sand 

The grave white-turbaned merchants go : 

And on from thence to Ispahan. 

The gilded garden of the sun, 
"NMieui'e the long dusty caravan 

Brings cedar and vermilion; 



FKEEDOM AND PATEIOTISM. 



353 



And that dread city of Cabool 
Set at the mountain's scarp6d feet, 

Whose marble tanks are ever full 
With water for the noonday heat : 

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar 

A little maid Circassian 
Is led, a present from the Czar 

Unto some old and bearded khan, — 

Here have our wild war eagles flown. 
And flapped wide wings in fiery flight; 

But the sad dove that sits alone 
In England — she hath no delight. 

In vain the laughing girl will lean 
To greet her love with lovelit eyes, 

Down in some treacherous black ravine, 
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 

And many a moon and sun will see 
The lingering wistful children wait 

To climb upon their father's knee; 
And in each house, made desolate, 

Pale women who have lost their lord 
Will kiss the relics of the slain — 

Some tarnished epaulette^ some sword — 
Poor toys to sooth such anguished pain. 

For not in quiet English fields 
Are these, our brothers, laid to rest. 

Where we might deck their broken shields 
With all the flowers the dead love best. 

For some are by the Delhi walls, 
And many in the Afghan land, 

And many where the Ganges falls 
Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 

And some in Russian waters lie. 
And others in the seas which are 

The portals to the East, or by 
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 



O restless sleep ! 
O silence of the sunless day ! 
still I'avine ! O stormy deep I 
Give up your prey! Give up your prey! 

And thou, whose wounds are never healed. 

Whose weary race is never won, 
O Cromwell's England! must thou yield 

For every inch of ground a son? 

Go ! crown with thorns that gold-crowned head. 
Change thy glad song to song of j^ain ; 

Wind and wild waves have got thy dead. 
And will not yield them back again. 

Wave, and wild wind, and foreign shore 
Possess the flower of English land ; 

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more. 
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? 

Where is our English chivalry? 
Wild grasses are their burial sheet. 

And sobbing waves their threnody. 

O loved ones lying far away. 

What word of love can dead lips send? 
wasted dust! senseless clay! 

Is this the end? Is this the end? 

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead 

To vex their solemn slumber so; 
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned hcid. 

Up the steep road must England go ; 

Yet when this fierj^ web is spun. 
Her watchmen shall descry from far 

The young republic, like a sun. 
Rise from these crimson seas of war. 

Oscar Wilde. 



WESTWARD THE COITKSE OP EMPIRE. 



|||HE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime. 
Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 
Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy climes the seat of innocence. 

Where nature guides and virtue rules. 
Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense. 

The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age. 
The rise of empire and of arts. 



The good and great uprising epic rage. 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
AVhen heavenly flame did animate her claj% 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The first four acts already past. 
The fifth shall close the drama with the da3'; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

George Bkrkei.e' 



354 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAXD. 




OUEX, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn! 
Thy sons, for valor long renown"d. 
Lie slaughtered on their native ground ; 
Thj' hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door, 
111 smoky ruins sunk tliey lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wdfe, 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
'ITiy swains are famish'd on the rocks, 
WTiere once thej' fed their wanton flocks : 
ITiy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; 
ITiy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it then, in every clime. 
Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise. 
Still shone with undiminish"d blaze? 
Thy tow"ring spirit now is broke. 
Thy neck is bended to the j^oke. 
What foreign arms could never quell. 
By civil rage and rancor fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day: 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the drearv winter night : 



No strains but those of sorrow flow. 
And naught be heard but sounds of woe, 
"WTiile the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

O baneful cause, O fatal morn, 
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn I 
The sons against their fathers stood, 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet. when the rage of battle ceas'd. 
The victor's soul was not appeas'd : 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames, and murd'riug steel! 

The pious mother doom'd to death. 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath. 
The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 
She views the shades of night descend. 
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
And nnimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat; 
And, spite of her insulting foe. 
My sympathizing verse shall flow: 
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy bauish'd peace, thy laurels torn! " 

Tobias S.aiollett. 



HEARTS OF OAK. 



^^OilE. cheer up, my lads! 'tis to glory we steer. 
'^^, To add something more to this wonderful vear : 

f"^ To honor we call j'ou, not press you like slaves. 
For who are so free as the sons of the waves? 
^ Hearts of oak are our ships, 

I Gallant tars are our men. 

We ah\aj's are ready : 
Steady, boys, steady! 
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. 

We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay; 
They never see us but they wish us away ; 



If they run. why. we follow, or run them ashore; 
For if the_y won't fight us we cannot do more. 

Tliey swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes! 
They frighten our women, our children, and beaux; 
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er. 
Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. 

Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea; 
Her standard is justice. — her watchword. "Be free." 
Tlien cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing, 
"Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king." 

David Garrick. 



-HAT art thou. Freedom? Oh ! could slaves 
Answer from their living graves 
This demand, tyrants would flee 
Like a dream's dim imageiy. 



^?^H, give, great God. to Freedom's waves to ride 
WSi^^ Sublime o'er Conquest. Avarice, and Pride: 
To sweep where Pleasm-e decks her guilty bowers. 
And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed to^^■ers. 



FEEEDOM AND PATEIOTISM. 



355 



PKO PATRIA MORI. 




HEN he who adores thee has left but the aanie 
Of his fault aud his sorrows behind. 
O! saj', wilt thou weep, wheu they darken the 
fame 
Of a life that for thee was resigned? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For. Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee. 



With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine : 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above. 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine! 
O ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy gloiy to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 

Thomas Moore. 



s-^e-? 



MEN OF ENGLAND. 



gEN of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood! 
Men whose undegenerate spirit 
Has been proved on field and flood: — 

By the foes you've fought uncounted, 
Bj' the glorious deeds ye've done, 

Trophies captiu-ed, — breaches mounted, 
Navies conquered, — kingdoms won. 

Yet, remember, England gathers 
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

If the freedom of your fathers 
Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery. 
Where no public virtues bloom? 



What avail, in lands of slavery, 
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? 

Pageants! — Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws, 

Aud the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom's holj- cause. 

Yours are Hami^den's. Russell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 

Martyrs in heroic story. 
Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crowned and mitred tyrann}^ ; — 

They defied the field and scaffold 
For their birthrights, — so will we! 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE BONNIE BANKS OF AYR. 



[Composed when the Poet thought of leaving Scotland and going to the West Indies.] 



]|HE gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 

Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast; 
Yon murkj' cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain; 
The hunter now has left the moor. 
The scattered coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander, pressed with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her placid azure ?ky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayi-. 



'Tis not the surging billow's roar; 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Though death in every shape appear, 
TTie wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart ti-anspierced with many a wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales! 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 
Pursuing past unhappj'^ loves ! 
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! 
Mj"^ peace with these, my love with those: — 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonnie banks of A.vr ! 

Robert Burns. 



356 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

SCOTLAND. 



CALEDOXIA: stern and wiW. 
Meet nurse for a poetic child I 
Laud of bro^^'u heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood. 
Land of my sires! what mortal hand 
Can e'er untie the filial hand 
That Icnits me to thy rugged strand? 
Still, as I view each well-known scene. 
Think what is now, and what hath been, 
Seems as, to me, of all bereft. 



Sole friends thy woods and streams were left,- 
And thus I love them better still. 
Even in extremitj' of ill. 
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray. 
Though none should guide my feeble way; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
Although it chilled my withered cheek; 
Still lay my head by Teviot stone. 
Though there, forgotten and alone. 
The bard may draw his parting groan. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE LOVE OF COU^TEY. 

^P^pHEXCE does this love of our country, this universal, passion proceed? T\liy does 
%<if|l? the e3'e ever dwell with fondness upon the scenes of infant life? Why do we 
^p breathe with greater joy the breath of our youth ? Why are not other soils as 
syg. grateful, and other heavens as gay? Why does the soul of man ever cling to that 
I earth where it first knew pleasure and pain, and, under the rough disciiDline of the 
^ passions, was roused to the dignity of moral life? Is it onl^" that our country con- 
tains our kindred and our friends? And is it nothing but a name for our social affections? 
It cannot be this ; the most friendless of human beings has a country which he admires 
and extols, and which he would, in the same circumstances, prefer to all others under 
heaven. Tempt him with the fairest face of nature, place him by living waters under 
shadowy trees of Lebanon, open to his view all the gorgeous allurements of the climates of 
the sun, he will love the rocks and deserts of his childhood better than all these, and thou 
canst not bribe his soul to forget the land of his nativity ; he will sit down and weep by 
the waters of Babylon, when he remembers thee, O Sion ! 

Sydxey Smith. 



I-IY^IX OF THE MOUNTAINEERS. 



pPpOR the strength of the hills we bless thee. 
^••to Our God. our fathers" God! 
^\^ Thou hast made thy children mighty 
V By the touch of the mountain sod. 

Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

"WTiere the spoiler's foot ne'er trod : 
For the sti-ength of the hills we bless thee. 
Our God, our fathers" God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

"Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Mid the silence of the skj': 



The rocks yield founts of courage. 

Struck forth as by thy rod — 
For the strength of the hiUs we bless 

Our God. our fathers' God! 



thee. 



For the dark, resounding caverns. 

Where thy still small voice is heard : 
For the strong pines of the forest. 

That by thy breath are stirred; 
For the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy Spirit walks abroad — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God. our fathers' God ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemax? 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



357 



ENGLAND. 



^k 



—wIkILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour 
W&^ Eueiaud hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
^1^ Of stagnant waters : altar, sword and pen, 
°T Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
O, raise us up, return to us again ; 



And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power I 

Thy soul was like a stai-, aud dwelt apart; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

Q"'he lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE FALL OF GREECE. 



?LIME of the unforgotten brave. 
Whose land, from plain to mountain cave, 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave; 

Say, is not this Thermopylje'? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

servile offspring of the free, — 
Pronounce what sea. what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 



That Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They, too, will rather die than shame; 
For Freedom's battle, once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page; 
Attest it, many a deathless age ; 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 

Lord Byron. 



sS~Ss<- 



FREEDOM'S TRUE HEROES. 



mP|AN tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, 

^^ Aud Freedom find no champion and no child 

JL Such as Columbia saw arise when she 

*i' Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? 

^ Or must such minds be uourished in the wild, 

¥ 

1 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 

' Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 

On infant Washington? Hath Earth no more 

Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 

shore? 



Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

Lord Byron. 



S|AY, gentle princess, would you not suppose 
A^ Your bondage happy, to be made a queen? 
— To be a queen in bondage is more vile 
Than is a slave in base servility. 



miETTER to dwell in Freedom's hall. 

With a cold damp floor and mouldering wall, 
Than bow the head and bend the knee 
In the proudest palace of slaverie. 



358 



THE GOLDEN mEASUHY. 



IRELAjSTD. 

[1S47.] 



jEIEY are dying! they are dying! Avhere the 

golden corn is growing ; 
They ai-e dying! they are djiug! where 

crowded herds are lowing; 
They are gasping for existence where the 

streams of life are flowing. 
And they perish of the plague where the 

hreeze of health is blo\\-ing ! 

God of justice! God of power! 

Do we dream? Can it be, 
In this land, at this hour, 

"With the blossom on the tree. 
In the gladsome month of May, 
"When the young lambs play, 
"\ATien Xature looks around 

On her waking children now, 
The seed within the ground, 

The bud upon the bough? 
Is it right, is it fair. 
That we perish of despair 
In this land, on this soil, 

"\ATiere our destiny is set, 
AMiich we cultured with our toil, 

And watered with our sweat? 
We have ploughed, we have sown. 
But the crop was not our own ; 
We have reaped, but harpy hands 
Swept the harvest from our lands ; 
We were perishing for food, 
"When lo ! in pitj'ing mood. 
Our kindly rulers gave 
The fat fluid of the slave. 
While our corn filled the manger 
Of the war-horse of the stranger ! 

God of mercj' ! must this last? 

Is this land preordained, 
For the present and the past 

And the future, to be chained, — 

To be ravaged, to be drained. 
To be robbed, to be spoiled. 

To be hushed, to be whipt, 

Its soaring pinions dipt. 
And its every effort foiled? 

Do our numbers niultiplj' 
But to perish and to die! 

Is this all our destiny below, — 
That our bodies, as they rot. 
May fertilize the spot 

"S^Tiere thehar\'ests of the stranger grow? 

If this be. indeed, our fate. 
Far, far better now, though late. 



That we seek some other land and try some other zone ; 

The coldest, bleakest shore 

Will surely yield us more 
Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not 
call our own. 

Kindly brothers of the West, 
Who from Libertj-"s full breast 
Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's 
frown. 
Behold our happy state, 
And weep your wretched fate 
That j'ou share not in the splendors of our empire 
and our crown ! 

Kindly brothers of the East, — 

Thou great tiaraed priest. 
Thou sanctified Eienzi of Eonie and of the earth, — 

Or thou who bear'st conti'ol 

Over golden Istambol, 
"Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our 
dearth. — 

Turn here your wondering ej-es, 
Call your wisest of the wise. 
Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest 
lore; 
Let the sagest of your sages 
Ope our island's mystic pages. 
And explain unto j'our highness the wonders of our 
shore. 

A fruitful, teeming soil, 

"Where the patient peasants toil 
Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky; 

"Where they tend the golden grain 

Till it bends upon the plain. 
Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die ; 

^Miere they watch their flocks increase. 
And store the snowy fleece 
Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the 
waves ; 
AAliere. having sent their meat 
For the foreigner to eat. 
Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their 
graves. 

'Tis for this they are djing where the golden corn is 

groM'ing, 
'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds 

are lowing. 
'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life 

are flowing, 
And they perish of the plague where the breeze of 

health is blowing! 

Denis Florknce MacCartuv. 



FEEEDOM AXD PATRIOTISM. 



359 




EMMET'S VI]:^DICATI01^. 



LORDS : What have I to say why sentence of death should not be pro- 
nounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter 
your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say with any view 
to the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and 
I must abide by. But I have that to say which interests me more than 
life, and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say why 
my reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and 
calumny which has been heaped upon it. Were I only to suffer death, 
after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should bow in silence, 
and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur; but the sentence 
of law which delivers my body to the executioner will, through the min- 
istry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character 
to obloquy ; for there must be guilt somewhere — whether in the sentence 
of the court, or in the catastrophe, posterity must determine. The man 
dies, but his memory lives. That mine may not perish — that it may live 
in the respect of my countrymen — I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from 
some of the charges alleged against me. When my spirit shall be wafted to a more 
friendly port ; when my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who 
have shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their country and vir- 
tue ; this is my hope — I wish that my memory and name may animate those who survive 
me, while I look down with complacency on the destruction of that perfidious government 
which upholds its domination by blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its powers 
over man as over the beasts of the forests, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his 
hand, in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or doubts a little 
more or less than the government standard — a government which is steeled to barbarity by 
the cries of the orphans and the tears of the widows which its cruelty has made. I swear 
by the throne of Heaven, before which I must shortl}^ appear — by the blood of the mur- 
dered patriots who have gone before me — that my conduct has been, through all this peril 
and all my purposes, governed only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other 
view than that of the emancipation of my country from the supei'inhuman oppression 
under which she has so long and too patiently travailed ; and that I confidently and as- 
suredly hope, wild and chimerical as it may apear, that there is still union and strength in 
Ireland to accomplish this noble enterprise. My country was my idol. To it I sacrificed 
every selfish, every endearing sentiment; and for it T now offer up my life ! I acted as an 
Irishman, determined on delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and unrelenting 
tyranny, and from the more galling yoke of a domestic faction, its joint partner and per- 
petrator in the patricide, whose reward is the ignominy of existing with an exterior of 
splendor and a consciousness of depravity. It was the wish of my heart to extricate my 
country from this doubly- riveted despotism. I wished to place her independence bej'ond 
the reach of any power on earth. I wished to exalt her *o that proud station in the world 
which Providence had fitted her to fill. 

I have been charged with that impcTrtance, in the efforts to emancipate my country, 
as to be considered the keystone of the combination of Irishmen, or, as your Lordship 



3()0 THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 

expressed it, "the life and blood of the conspiracy." You do me honor overmuch. You 
have given to the subaltern all the credit of a superior. There are men engaged in this 
conspiracy who are not only superior to me, but even to your own conceptions of yourself, 
ni}' Lord — men before the splendor of whose genius and virtues I should bow with respect- 
ful deference, and who would think themselves dishonored to be called your friends. Let 
no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor ; let no man attaint my mem- 
ory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty 
and independence, or that I could have become the pliant minion of power in the oppres- 
sion or the miseries of my countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppres- 
sor, for the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant ; in the dignity of freedom 
I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only 
by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have 
subjected myself to the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bond- 
age of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights and my country her independ- 
ence — am I to be loaded with calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No ! 
God forbid ! 

If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those 
who are dear to them in this transitory life, O ever dear and venerated shade of my 
departed father, look down with scrutiny on the conduct of your suffering son, and see if 
I have even for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which 
it was your care to instill into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I am now 
to offer up my life ! My Lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which 
you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim ; it circulates 
warmly and uni'ufiled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but 
which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven ! Be ye 
patient; I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp 
of life is nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink 
into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world — it is the 
charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph ; for, as no one who knows my 
motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them 
and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times 
and other men can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place 
among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. T 
have done. 

Egbert Emmet. 



IXDEPEXDENCE. 

||P|irY spirit, Independence, let me share, "^^'hi^t time the iron-hearted Ganl. 

-JM^ Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye; ^^"ith frantic superstition for his guide, 

^Ij^ Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare. Armed with the dagger and the pall, 

W* Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. The sons of Woden to the field defied ; 

Deep in the frozen regions of the North The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood, 

A goddess violated brought thee forth, I" Heaven's name urged the infernal blow; 

Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime And red the stream began to flow ; 

Hath bleached the tyrant's cheek in every varying The vanquished were baptized with blood ! 

clime. Tobias George Smollett. 



FEEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



361 



HALLOWED GROUND. 



^fl^HAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod 
^iils4 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
^y&f By man, the image of his God, 
tl Erect and free, 

Unscourged by Superstition's rod 
To bow the knee? 

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and 

missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed; — 
But Where's tlieir memory's mansion? Is 't 

Yon churchyard's bowers? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 

Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 

The spot Mhere love's fli'st links were wound. 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallowed down to earth's pi-ofound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burniug thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould; 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 
'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind, — 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
Whvit can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that, — and welcome War to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking siiace! 

Tlie colors planted face to face, 

Tlie charging cheer. 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase. 

Shall still be dear. 



11^^-JL 



And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace. Love! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shriue, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temijles shine, 

"W^here they are not,— 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ! 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt. 
That man can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples,— creeds themselves grow wan! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven! 

Its roof, star-pictured Nature's ceiling. 
Where, ti-ancing the rapt spirit's feeling. 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obs(,'ure? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above? 
Ye must be heavens that nuike us sure 

Of heavenlj^ love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! • — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round; 
And your high-priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 

Thomas Campbell. 

_4,. 



pN the long vista of the years to roll, 
§» Let me not see my countiy's honor fade , 
•23 



Oh ! let me see our land retain its soul ! 

Her pride in Freedom, and not Freedom's shade. 



362 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY 





rXJUST XATIOXAL ACQUISITIONS. 

. PRESIDENT: — The uneasy desire to augment our territorj' has 
depraved the moral sense and blighted the otherwise keen sagacity of 
our people. Sad, xery sad, are the lessons which time has written for 
us. Through and in them all I see nothing but the inflexible execu- 
tion of that old law which ordains, as eternal, the cardinal rule: 
" Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods, nor anything which is 
his." Since I have lately heard so much about the dismemberment 
of Mexico, I have looked back to see how, in the course of events, 
which some call " Providence," it has fared with other nations who 
engaged in this work of dismemberment. I see that in the latter 
half of the eighteenth century' three powerful nations, — Eussia, 
Austria, and Prussia, — united in the dismemberment of Poland. 
They said, too, as you say: "It is our destin}'." They "wanted 
room." Doubtless each of these thought, with his share of Poland, 
his power was too strong ever to fear invasion, or even insult. One 
had his California, another his New Mexico, and the third his Vera Cruz. Did they 
remain untouched and incapable of harm? Alas! no — far, very far, from it. 
Retributive justice must fulfill its destiny too. A ver}^ few years pass off, and we 
hear of a new man, a Corsican lieutenant, the self-named " armed soldier of Democ- 
racy," Napoleon. He ravages Austria, covers her land with blood, drives the Northern 
Cfesar from his capital, and sleeps in his palace. Austria may now remember how her 
power trampled upon Poland. Did she not pay dear, very dear, for her California? 

But has Prussia no atonement to make ? You see this same Napoleon, the blind 
instrument of Providence, at work there. The thunders of his cannon at Jena 
proclaim the work of retribution for Poland's wrongs; and the successoi-s of the 
Great Frederick, the drill-sergeant of Europe, are seen flying across the sand}' plains 
that surround their capital, right glad if they ma}' escape captivit}' and death. 

But how fares it with the Autocrat of Russia? Is he secure in his share of the 
spoils of Poland? No. Suddenly we see, sir, six hundred thousand armed men 
marching to Moscow. Does his Vera Cruz protect him now? Far from it. Blood, 
slaughter, desolation, spread abroad over the land; and, finally, the conflagration of the 
old commercial metropolis of Russia closes the retribution : she must pay for her share 
in the dismemberment of her impotent neighbor. 

Mr. President, a mind more prone to look for the judgments of Heaven in the 
doings of men than mine cannot fail, in all unjust acquisitions of territory, to see the 
Providence of God. "When ]\Ioscow burned, it seemed as if the earth was lighted up, 
that the nations might behold the scene. As that mighty sea of fire gathered and 
heaved and I'olled upward, and yet higher, till its flames licked the stars, and fired the 
whole heavens, it did seem as though the God of the nations was writing, in characters 
of flame, on the front of his throne, that doom that shall fall upon the strong nation 
which ti'amples in scorn upon the weak. 

And what fortune awaits him, the appointed executor of this work, when it was 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



3;)3 



all done? He, too, conceived the notion that his destiny pointed onward to universal 
dominion. France was too small, — Europe he thought should bow down before him. 
But as soon as this idea takes possession of his soul, he too becomes powerless. His 
terminus must recede too. Right there, while he witnessed the humiliation, and, 
doubtless, meditated the subjugation of Russia, He who holds the winds in his fist, 
gathered the snows of the North, and blew them upon his six hundred thousand men. 
They fled, — they froze, — they perished. 

And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal dominion, he too is 
summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law: " Thou shalt not covet 
anything which is thy neighbor's." How is the mighty fallen! He, beneath whose 
proud footstep Europe trembled, he is now an exile at Elba, and, now, finally a prisoner 
on the rock of St. Helena, — and there, on a barren island, in ari unfrequented sea, in 
the crater of an extinguished volcano, — there is the death-bed of the mighty conqueror. 
All his annexations have come to that! His last hour is now at hand; and he, the 
man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as with the throes of an earthquake, is 
now powerless, still, — even as the beggar, so he died. 

On the wings of a tempest that raged with unwonted fury, up to the throne of 
the only Power that controlled him while he lived, went the fiery soul of that wondei- 
ful warrior, another witness to the existence of that eternal decree, that they who do 
not rule in righteousness shall perish from the earth. He has found "room" at last. 
And France, she too has found "room." Her "eagles" now no longer scream along 
the banks of the Danube, the Po, and the Borysthenes ; they have returned home to 
their old aerie between the Alps, the Rhine, and the Pyrenees. 

So shall it be with yours. You may carry them to the loftiest peaks of the 
Cordilleras; they may wave, with insolent triumph, in the halls of the Montezumas; 
the armed men of Mexico may quail before them ; but the weakest hand in Mexico, 
uplifted in prayer to the God of justice, may call down against you a Power in the 
presence of which the iron hearts of your warriors shall be turned into ashes ! 

Thomas Corwin. 



THE BALLOT-BOX. 



^^^pLONG the street 
fiCVg rpjjg shadows meet 

Of Destiu}', whose hands couceal 
The moulds of fate 
That shape the State, 
And make or mar the common weal. 

Around I see 

The powers that be ; 
I stand hy Empire's primal springs ; 

And princes meet 

In every street. 
And hear the tread of uncrowned kings I 



Not lightly fall 

Beyond recall 
The written scrolls a breath can float 

The crowning fact 

The kingliest act 
Of Freedom is the freeman's vote! 

John Greenleaf AVhittier. 



^^ATIONS grown coiTupt 

tsMhb Love bondage more than liberty ; 

Bondage witli ease than strenuous libcrtj-. 



3G4 



THE GOUDEX 1-EEASUET. 



HAEP OF THE XORTH. 



S:f 



fE^BABP of the Xorth I that mouldering long hast 
hung 
On the witeh-elm that shades Saint Fillan"s 

I spring. 

I And down the fitful hreeze thy numbers flung. 

Till envious hy did around thee cling. 
Muffling ^^■^th verdant ringlet every string. 

Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep"? 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains miu"miiring. 

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep. 
'Sot bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep? 

Ifot thus, in ancient days of Caledon. 

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd. 
"VMiea lay of hopeless love, or glorj- won. 

Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. 



At each according patise was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high 1 

Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed ; 
For still the bm-den of thy minstrelsy 

Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's 
matchless eye. 

0. wake once more I how rude soe'er the hand 

That ventiu-es o"er thy magic maze to stray : 
O. wake once more I though scarce my skill command 

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay : 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away. 

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain. 
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway. 

The wizard note has not been touched in vain. 
Then silent be no morel Enchantress, wake again I 

SiK AValter Scott. 



sS— ^ 



MARCO B0ZZARI3. 



I^T midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
-■ When Greece, her linee in suppliance bent. 
Should n-emble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and comt. he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard : 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring. 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote baud. — 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

On old Platjea's day: 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there. 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far. as they. 

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 

'■To arms I they come! the Greek! the Greek!' 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke. 
And shout, and g^oan. and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 



'•Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fli-es; 
Strike — for the green graves of yom- sii-es, 
God, and your native land! " 

They fought, like brave men. long and well; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at everj- vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when raug their proud huiTah. 

And the red field was won: 
Then saw in death his eyelids close. 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! 

Come to the mother when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath : 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in ccmsumption's ghastlv form. 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm : 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine. 
And thou art terrible : the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 



FEEEDOM AND PATEIOTISM. 



365 



Come wheu his task of fame is wTought; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; 

Come in her crowning hour — ^and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to piisoued men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign laud ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Eest thee; there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 



But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; 
For thine her evening i^rayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed. 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth, — 
'Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, — 
One of the fen*, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 



F old sat Freedom on the heights. 
The thunders breaking at her feet; 

Above her shook the starry lights. 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice. 
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down through town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men revealed 
The fullness of her face — 



Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 
Who G od-like grasps the triple forks. 

And king-like wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 
Make bright our days and light our dreams. 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



FREEDOM. 




! FEEDOME is a nobill thing! 
Fredome mayse man to haiff liking! 
Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
He levys at ese that frely lev}'s ! 
A noble hart may haiff nane ese, 
Na elh's nocht that may him plese, 
Gyff fredome failythe : for fre liking 
Is yearnyt our all othir thing 



Na he, that aj^ base le^yt fre, 
Ma.y nocht knaw weill the propyrte, 
The angja-, na the wrechyt dome. 
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 
Bot g^'ff he had assay it it. 
Than all perquer he suit it wyt; 
And suld think fredome mar to pryse 
Than all the gold in warld that is. 

John Barbour. 



366 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



LOVE OF LIBERTY, 



# 



FOR a lodge in some vast ^vilderness. 
Some boundless coutig^uity of shade, 
"VVTiere rumor of oppression and deceit. 
Of unsuccessful and successful "svar. 
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, 
My soul is sick, with every day's report 
Of AATong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart. 
It does not feel for man, the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of flre. 
He finds his fello\v guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own ; and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prej'. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. 3Iouutains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 



Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroj's; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored. 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With sti'ipes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart. 
Weeps when she seees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this. 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep. 
And ti-emble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in m.v heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave. 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

William Cowper. 



-•Oo^-^.O.. 



THE SOUECE OF PAETT WISDOM. 



Wm have seen the sea lashed into fury and tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves 
^m, the soul of the dullest man; but I remember that it is not the billows, but the calm 
|-|- level of the sea, from which all heights and depths are measured. When the storm 
I j has passed and the hour of calm settles on the ocean, when the sunlight bathes its 
smooth surface, then the astronomer and surveyor take the level from which to meas- 
ure all terrestrial heights and depths. Gentlemen of the convention, your present temper 
may not mark the healthful pulse of our people when our enthusiasm has passed. When 
the emotions of this hour have subsided we shall find that calm level of public opinion 
below the storm, from which the thoughts of a mighty people are to be measured, and by 
which their final action will be determined. Not here in this brilliant circle, where fifteen 
thousand men and women are assembled, is the destiny of the Republican party to be 
declared. Not here, where I see the faces of seven hundred and fifty-six delegates waiting 
to cast their votes in the urn and determine the choice of the republic, but by four million 
Republican firesides, where the thoughtful voters, with wives and children about them, 
with the calm thoughts inspired by the love of home and country, with the history of the 
past, the hopes of the future, and a knowledge of the great men who have adorned and 
blessed our nation in days gone by — there God prepares the verdict that shall determine the 
wisdom of our work to-night. Not in Chicago, in the heats of June, but in the sober quiet 
that comes to them between now and November; in the silence of deliberate judgment will 
the great question be settled. 

James A. Garfield. 



— e^- 



IPpREEDOM who loves, must first 
«^ good ; 

But from that mark how far they rove we see. 
For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood. 



be -wise and ll^^^^ ^^^ ^^ reason then or right assume 

jHyHt ]Monarchy over such as live by right 
His equals, if in pow'r or splendor less, 
[n freedom equal. 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



3(37 



A CURSE ON THE TRAITOR. 



FOR a tongue to curse the slave, 

Whose treason, like a deadl}' blight, 
Comes o'er the councils of the brave. 

And blasts them in their hour of might! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugged with treacheries to the brim,— 
AVith hopes that but allure to fly. 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye. 

But turn to ashes on the lips. 



_3--ac--^ 



His countrj^'s curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, aud fame; 
May he, at last, with lips of flame 
On the pai-ched desert, thirsting, die, — 
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh. 
Are fading off, untouched, untasted. 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 
Beholding heaven, aud feeling hell! 

Thomas Moore. 



DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 



SACRED Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile. 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to 

smile. 
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern 
1 wars 

Her whiskered pandoors aud her tierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. 
Presaging wrath to Poland — aud to man! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
"O Heaven! " he cried, "my bleeding country save, — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 
Yet. though destruction sweep those lovely plains. 
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high ! 
Aud swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! " 



He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but luidismayed : 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death! — the watcliword aud reply; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm. 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! — 

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : — 
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitting foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. 
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell. 

Thomas Campbell. 



GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND. 



gREEN fields of England! whereso'er 
. „„ -. Across this watery waste we fare. 



jl 



Your image at our hearts we bear. 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be. 



Ere your loved smile I cease to see. 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast, 
If but in thee my lot be cast. 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



ETERNAL SPIRIT OF THE CH^INLESS MIND. 



^PSTERlSrAL spirit of the chainless mind! 
-j^S Brightest in dungeons, Libertv! thou art; 
'^f^ For there thy habitation is the heart — 
J^ The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 



And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — 
Their counti-y conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on CA^ery wind. 

Lord Byron. 



3G8 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



BANNOCKBURN. 



feT Bannockburn the English lay — 
^ The Scots they \vere ua far away. 
But waited for the break o" day 
That glinted in the east ; 

But soon the sun broke through the heath 
And lighted up that field o' death, 
When Bruce, \vi' saul-inspiring breath. 
His heralds thus addressed : — 

Scots, who hae wi* Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gorj' bed. 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour. 
See the front o" battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie ! 



"Wha will be a traitor knave? 
A\Tia can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee! 

"Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa"? 
Let him follow me I 

By Oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sous in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in everj' foe ! 
Liberty "s in every blo\\' ! 
Let us do, or die! 



Robert Burns. 



JSx^ 



OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. 



AY down the axe, fling by the spade; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 

For arms like yom-s are titter now; 
And let the hands that ply the pen 

Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 

The charger on the battle-field. 

Our coimtr}^ calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the green. 
Strike to defend the gentlest sway 

That Time in all his course has seen. 
See, from a thousand coverts — see 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; 
ITiey rush to smite her down, and we 

^lust beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! stui'dy as the oaks ye cleave, 

And moved as soon to fear and flight; 
Men of the glade and forest! leave 

Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 
The arms that wield the axe must pour 

An iron tempest on the foe ; 
His serried ranks shall reel before 

The arm that lays the panther low. 

And ye who breast the mountain storm 
By grassy steep or highland lake. 

Come, for the land ye love, to form 
A bulwark that no foe can break. 



Stand, like j'onr own gray cliffs that mock 
The whirlwind ; stand in her defence : 

The blast as soon shall move the rock. 
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 

And ye, whose homes are by her grand 

Swift rivers, rising far away, 
Come from the depth of her green land 

As mighty in your march as they; 
As terrible as when the rains 

Have swelled theiu over bank and bourne. 
With sudden floods to drown the plains 

And sweep along the woods uptorn. 

And ye who throng beside the deep. 

Her ports and liamlets of the strand. 
In number like the waves that leap 

On his long muruuu'ing marge of sand. 
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, 

He rises, all his floods to pour. 
And flings the proudest barks that s^vim, 

A helpless wTCck against his shore. 

Few, few were they whose swords of old, 

Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
But we are many, we who hold 

Tlie grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike for that broad and goodly land. 

Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That flight and Right move hand in hand, 

And glorious nnist their triumph be. 

AViLLiAM Clllex Bryant. 



FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



369 



THE BETTER COUNTRY. 



^^UT where to find that happiest spot helow, 
i^^ Who eau direct, when all pretend to know? 
"ff- The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
il Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
The naked negro, panting at the line. 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. ■ 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. 
His first, best comitry ever is at home. 



Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE ISLES OF G-REEOE. 



gHE isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Whei'e burning Sappho loved and sung, ■ 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet; 
But all except theii- sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo farther west 

Than your sires' '■ Islands of the Blessed." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 
■\Miich looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships b}' thousands lay below, 
And men in nations: — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? — and where art thou, 
My coimtry? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

"Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a pati-iot's shame. 
Even as T sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

F r Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 



Must we but weep o'er days more blessed? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae. 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, '"Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come; we come! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Saniian \\ine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal I 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadnuis gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend. 
That tyrant was jNIiltiades ! 

Oh, that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to hind. 



370 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY, 



Fill high the howl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli"s rock and Parga"s shore 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore : 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own.' 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break 3-our shield, however broad. 



Fill high the bowl witli Samian wine I 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade — '■ 

I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But. gazing on each glowing maid, 

My own the burning tear-drop laves, 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
^^'he^e nothing save the waves and 1 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cu^j of Samian wine ! 

LoKD Byron. 



THE PROGRESS OF LIBERTY 



^iT^IIY muse upon the past with sorrow 
jiftfti- the vear 



Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide 

Of old Eternitj-, and borne along 
Upon its lieaving breast a thousand wrecks 
Of glory and of beauty, — }^et why mourn 
That such is destinj? Another j-ear 
Succeedeth to the past; — in their bright round 
The seasons come and go; — the same blue arch 
That hath hung o"er us, will hang o'er us yet; — 
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch, 
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hotu", 
Like lilies on the tomb of Daj': — and still 
Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed, 
And mark the earth with passion. Love will spring 
From the lone tomb of old affections; — hope 
And joy and great ambition will rise up 
As they have risen. — and their deeds will be 
Brighter than those engraven on the scroll 
Of parted centuries. Even now the sea 
Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves 
Life's great events are heaving into birth. 
Is tossing to and fro. as if the winds 
Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths 
And struggling to be fi'ee. 



Though There is a deep, portentous murmuring. 

Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, 
Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air 
When the fierce tempest, with sonorous wing, 
Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds. 
And laurries onward with his night of clouds 
Against the eternal mountains. 'T is the voice 
Of infant Freedom, — and her stirring call 
Is heard and answered in a thousand toues 
From everv hill-top of her A\estern home; — 
And lo ! it breaks across old Ocean's flood. — 
And "Freedom! Freedom!" is the answering 

shout 
Of nations, starting from the spell of years. 

-see, — 'tis brighteninsr in the 



Weep not that time 
Is passing on, — it will ere long reveal 
A brighter era to the nations. — Hark! 
Along the vales and mountains of the earth 



The day-spring !- 

heavens ! 
The watchmen of the night have caught the sign ;- 
From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free ; — 
And the deep watchword, like the rush of seas 
That herald the volcano's bursting flame. 
Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of hope 
And life are on the wing! — Yon glorious bow 
Of freedom, bended by the hand of God. 
Is spanning time's dark surges. Its high arch 
A tj'pe of love and mercy on the cloud. 
Tells that the many storms of luuiian life 
Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves. 
Gathering the forms of glory and of peace. 
■ Reflect the undimmed brightness of the heavens. 
George D. Prextice. 

^ssg— gsM— 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 



I^HO is the happy warrior? "Who is lie 
-«^M> '^^^* everj'- man in arms should wish to 

'?' It is the generous spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath -wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boj-ish thought : 



A^Tiose high endeavors are an inward light 
'ITiat makes the patli before him always bright: 
AVho, with a natural instinct to discern 
^Miat knowledge can i)erform. is diligent to learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not tiiere. 
But makes his moral being his prime care : 



FEEEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. 



371 



Who, doomed to go in couipauy with Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest dower; 

Controls theai and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 

By objects which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 

Is placable, because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful in seK-knowledge, even more pure, 

As tempted more; more able to endure. 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill. 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He labors good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue everj' triumph that he knows : 

Who, if he rise to station of command, 

Rises by open means ; and there will stand 

On honorable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself jiossess his own desire: 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop nor lie in Avait 

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 

Whose powers shed roTuid him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influeuce, a peculiar grace; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 



Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a lover; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed. 

Come when it will, is equal to the need: 

He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans 

To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 

Sweet images! which, wheresoe'ei" he be, 

Are at his heart; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve ; 

More brave for this, that he hath nuieh to love : — 

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high. 

Conspicuous object in a nation's eye. 

Or left unthought of in obscuritj'', — 

Who, with a to\^•ard or untoward lot, 

Pi'osperous or adverse, to his wish or not, 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value nmst be won : 

Whoui neither shape of danger can disuiay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness beti'ay; 

"WT^io, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last, 

From well to better, dail,y self-surpast: 

Who, whether praise of him nuist walk the earth 

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead, unprofitable name. 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: — 

This is the happy A\arrior ; this is he 

That every man in arms should wish to be. 

Willi A Ji Wordsworth. 



I'M "WITH YOTJ ONCE AGAIN. 



p'M with you once again, my friends, 
'^ No more my footsteps roam ; 
Where it began my journey ends. 

Amid the scenes of home. 
No other clime has skies so blue. 
Or streams so broad and clear. 
And where are hearts so warm and true 
As those that meet me here? 

Since last, with spirits wild and free, 

I pressed my native strand, 
I've wandered many miles at sea, 

And many miles on land : 
I've seen fair regions of the earth 

With rude commotion torn, 
Wliich taught me how to pr'iy.e the worth 

Of that where I was born. 



In other countries when I heard 

The language of my own. 
How fondly each familiar word 

Awoke an answering tone ! 
But when our woodland songs were sung 

Upon a foreign mart 
The vows that faltered on the tongue 

With rapture thrilled my heart! 

My native land ! I turn to you. 

With blessing and with prayer, 
^Vhere man is brave and woman true, 

And free as mountain air. 
Long may our flag in triumph wave. 

Against the world combined. 
And friends a welcome — foes a grave. 

Within our borders find. 

George P. Morris. 



372 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? 



<hyr 



JpHAT constitutes a state? 

'■^- Xot hiffh-raised battlement or labored 




mound. 
Thick wall or moated gate : 
Xot cities proud Avith spires aud tmrets 
crowned : 
Xot bajs and broad-armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Xot starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

Xo : — men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, — 

Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain; 
Prevent the long-aimed blow. 



And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain, — 

TTiese constitute a state ; 
And sovereign law. that state's collected will. 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, ciowuing good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The lieud, Dissension, like a vapor sinks : 

And e"en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shriaks; 

Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos faii-er and the Cretan shore I 

Xo more shall freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

"T is folly to decline. 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 



3®-^^ 



THE LOVE OF COUXTRY. 



^EEATHES there the man with soul so dead, 
^ATio never to himself hath said. 

This is my own. my native land I 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned 
As home his footsteps he hath turned. 

From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mai"k him well: 
For him no minstrel raptures swell I 



High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim : 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
Tlie wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair reuown. 
-Vnd doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. 
L'nwept. unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir AV alter Scott. 



-^--^r- 



IT'S HAME, AXD IT'S HAME. 



ppT'S hame, and it's hame. hame fain wad I be, 
«l^ An' it's hame, hame. hame. to my ain countree I 
^5 AVhen the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on 
I the tree, 

1 The lark shall sing me hame in my ain counti-ee ; 
It's hame, aud it's hame. hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame. hame. to mj- aiu countree I 

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa". 
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a"; 
But I'll water "t wi" the blude of usurpiug tjTannie. 
An' green it will grow in my ain countree. 
It's hame. and it's hame. hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! 



There's naught now frae ruin my countrj^ can save 
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 
ITiat a' the noble martjTS who died for loyaltie _ 
May rise again and fight for their ain countree. 
It's hame. au' it's hame. hame fain wad I be. 
An" it's hame. hame. hame. to my ain countree! 

The great now are gane. a' who ventured to save, 
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; 
Bur the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee, 
••I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree." 
It's hame. and it's hame. hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame. hame. hame. to my ain connti-ee! 

Allan Cun-xingham. 



Part VI 



QTstmp anJb^ JJattt^. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



^2 .&. 




' Charged with Abercrombie's doom, 
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball." 



THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 



^j^ARP of MemnonI sweetly strnng 
To the music of the spheres; 
•f While the Hero's dh-ge is sung, 

Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow, 
O'er the plain with carnage spread 

Soothe the dying while they flow 
To the memory of the dead. 



Lashed to madness by the wind, 
As the Red Sea surges roar 

Leave a gloomy gulf behind. 
And devour the shrinking shore. 

Thiis, with overwhelming pride, 
Gallia's brightest, boldest hoast. 

In a deep and dreadful tide, 
Roird upon the British host. 



375 



37(5 



THE GOLDElSr TEEASUEY. 



Now the veteran Chief drew nigh. 
Conquest towering on his crest, 

Valor beaming from his eye, 
Pity bleeding on his breast. 

On the whirlwind of the war 
High be rode in vengeance dire; 

To his friends a leading star. 
To his foes consuming fire. 

Charged with Abercrombie's doom. 
Lightning wiug"d a cruel ball: 

'Twas the Herald of the Tomb, 
And the Hero felt the call — 

Felt — • and raised his arms on high ; 

Victory well the signal knew, 
Darted from his awful e3'e, 

And the force of France o'erthrew. 



Harp of Memnon I sweetly strung 

To the music of the spheres; 
While the Hero's dirge is sung. 

Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow, 
0"er the plain with carnage spread. 

Soothe the dying while they How 
To the memory of the dead. 

ITien thj^ tones ti'iumphant pour. 
Let them pierce the Hero's grave ; 

Life's tumultuous battle o'er, 
O, how sweetly sleep the brave ! 

From the dust their laurels bloom. 

High they shoot and flourish free; 
Glorj-'s temple is the tomb; 

Death is immortality. 

James Montgomery. 



•=<> = -^-^»0" 



THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 



iippAIR stood the ^\^nd for France, 
1^1 AVhen we our sails advance, 
vjl^ Xor now to prove our chance 
ilf IjOnger -will tarry ; 

But putting to the main, 
At Kause, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train. 
Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort. 
Furnished in warlike sort. 
Marched toward Agincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing daj' by day 
With those that stopped his way. 
"WTiere the French genei-al lay 

With all his power. 

WTiich in his height of pride. 
King Henry to deride. 
His I'ausom to provide 

To the king seuding; 
"WTiich he neglects the while, 
As from a nation ^^lc. 
Yet, with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have we well begun. 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

Bv fame been raised. 



And for myself, quoth he. 
This mj' full rest shall be ; 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor jnore esteem me. 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressj' tell. 

When most their pride did swell, 

Lender our swords thej- fell. 

No less our skill is 
Than when our graudsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Ilcnrv sped 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord ! how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen. 

They now to fight are gone ; 
Armor on armor shone ; 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The ver>' earth did shake, 
Tnuiipet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



377 



Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingbam ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When, from a meadow by 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Sti-uck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so sti-ong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts. 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilboes drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tard}^ : 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent; 
Down the French peasants went; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king. 
His broadsword brandishing. 
Down the French host did ding. 
As to o'erwhelm it; 



And many a deep wound rent 
His arms with blood besprent. 
And many a cruel dent. 
Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood. 

With his brave brother 
Clarence, in steel so bright. 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious tight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade; 
Oxford the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fauhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which Fame did not delay 

To England to cany. 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen. 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 

Michael Drayton. 



-^sS-^M- 



YE MAKINERS OF ENGLAND. 



j|gE mariners of England 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze. 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe, 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the storm}' winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ; 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 

As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud a!id long. 

And the stormv winds do blo^^^ 



Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deej). 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart. 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors. 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the flery flght is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



378 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 



iF Nelson and the Xorth 
Sing the glorious day"s renown. 
AVhen to battle tierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crow n. 
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand, 
In a bold, determined hand. 
And the prince of all the laud 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 
Laj^ their bulwarks on the brine; 
\^^lile the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line : 
It was ten of April morn bj' the chime : 
As they drifted on their i^ath. 
There was silence deep as death ; 
And the boldest held his breath, 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rushed 

O 'er the deadly space between. 

"Hearts of oak!" our captain ried; when 

each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 

Then ceased — and all is wail. 

As they strike the shattered sail; 

Or in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. ^ 



Out spoke the victor then. 
As he hailed them o'er the wave : 
"Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
And we conquer but to save : — 
So peace instead of death let us bring; 
But yield, proud foe, thj- fleet, 
AVith the crews, at England's feet. 
And make submission meet 
To om- king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief. 
That he gave her wounds repose; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her jjeople wildly rose. 
As death withdrew his shades from the day. 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woful sight. 
Where the flres of funei-al light 
Died away. 

Now, joy. Old England, raise, 
For the tidings of thy might. 
By the festal cities' blaze. 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep. 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
Once so faithful and so true. 
On the deck of fame that died 
With the gallant good Eiou ; 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
While the billow mournful roll«i. 
And the mermaid's song condoles. 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



FLODDEN FIELD. 




H^jUT see ! look up !— on Flodden bent 
JThe Scottish foe has fii-ed his tent." 
^^ And sudden as he spoke. 

From the sharp ridges of the hill 
All downward to the banks of Till 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. 
Announced their march; their tread 
alone. 



At times one warning tnimpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-thi'one 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes. 
Until at weapon-point they close ; 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust. 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; 

And such a yell was there. 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth. 

And flends in upper air; 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



379 



O, life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 
And triumph and despair. 

****** 

Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 
Fell England 'S arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
And many a stubborn Badeuoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly, and with Home. 
Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Ai-gyle ; 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword plied, 
'T was vain : — But Fortune, on the right. 
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
ITien fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard's lion fell; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer gi-ew 

Around the battle yell. 



The Border slogan rent the sky! 
A Home ! a Gordon I was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, nov 
high. 

The pennon sunk and i-ose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 

It wavered mid the foes. 



By this, though deep the evening fell. 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
For still the Scots, around their king 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vanward wing? 

Whei-e Huntly, and where Home? — 
O for a blast of that dread horn. 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come, 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain. 
To quit the plunder of the slain. 
And turn the doubtful day again. 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



NASEBY. 



/ah ! wherefore come ye forth in ti-iumph from Like a sei-vant of the Lord, with his Bible and his 

A^l the North, sword, 

^^ With your hands and your feet and your The general rode along us to form us for the fight; 



U raiment all red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a 
joyous shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye 
tread? 

Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we 

trod; 
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and 

the strong, 
■Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of 

God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses 

shine. 
And the man of blood was there, with his long 

essenced liair. 

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rui^ert of the For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall. 
Rhine. 

24 



When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled 

into a shout. 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 

right. 

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore. 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line : 
"For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the 

laws! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the 

Rhine ! " • 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and 

his drums. 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall : 
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! 

Close j'our ranks! 



380 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



'ITiey are here — they rusli on — ^ve are broken — we Fools! your doublets shone %\'ith gold, and your 

are gone — hearts were gay and bold, 

Our left is borne before tnem like the stubble on the ^Vhen you kissed your lily hands to your lemans 

blast. to-day; 

O Lord, put forth thy might I Lord, defend the And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in 

right! the rocks 

Stand back to back, in G-od"s name ! and fight it to Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

the last ! 



Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath given 
ground. 

Hark! hark! what means the ti-ampliug of horse- 
men on our rear? 

Whose banners do I see, boys? 'Tis he ! thank God ! 
'tis he, boys! 

Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here ! 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a 

row : 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the 

dikes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accm'st. 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to 

hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple 

Bar; 
And he — he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel 

eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on 

war. 

Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the 
slain. 

First give another stab to make your search secure ; 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- 
pieces and lockets. 

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 



Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven 

and hell and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with your 

blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and j-our 

oaths? 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds 

and your spades? 

Do^vn, down, forever down with the mitre and the 
crown. 

With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of 
the Pope : 

There is woe in Oxford halls ; there is wail in Dur- 
ham's stalls; 

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his 
cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's 
ills. 

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of Eng- 
land's sword ; 

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
they hear 

^Vhat the hand of God hath wrought for the 
Houses and the Word. 

Thomas Babington Macadlay. 



^~3Q^ 



THE ARMADA. 

^^TTEXD, all ye who list to hear our noble At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

Sy England's praise : grace ; 

^4^ I sing of the thrice famous deeds she ^vl•ougllt And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in 

in ancient days, chase. 

"When that great fleet invincible, against her Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along 

bore, in vain, the wall; 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's 

Spain. lofty hall ; 

Many a light fishing bark put out. to pry along the 

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, ^^^^ ' . , , , , , . , , 

There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Ply- ^^^ ^'^^^ ^^^'^ '^''' ="^^ ^^°°^J" ^^l'"'"' ™^" "^^^"'^ 

mouth Bay; many a post. 

The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond An- AVith his white haia-, unbonnetted,tbe stout old sheriff 

rigny's Isle. comes. 

At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound 

mile. the drums : 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 381 

The yeomen, round the marKet cross, make clear and The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the 

ample space, night, 

For there behoves him to set up the standard of her And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of 

grace : blood-red light : 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like 

bells, silence broke, 

As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon ^^^j ^^^^^ ^^^ g^art, and with one cry, the royal city 

swells. ^oke; 

Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient ^^ ^^^^^ ^n all her stately gates, arose the answering 

crown, flj.gg. 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^il^j ^1^^^.^^^^ ^^^g^^^^ f^.^^^, ^^^ ^^^. ^.^^^. 

uowul . '^ 

soirGS * 

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed ^ „ , ' , . „ 

p. , , „ , , From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's ' 

eao-le «hield • -^^ ^^^ ^'^^ thousand masts of Thames sent back a 
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in Avrath he turned louder cheer : 

to bay, -^^^ from the farthest wards was heard the rush of 
And crashed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely huriying feet, 

hunters lay. And the broad streams of flags and i3ikes dashed down 
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter each rousing street : 

flowers, fair maids ! And broader still became the blaze, and louder still 
Ho, gunners! lire a loud salute! ho, gallants, draw the din, 

your blades! As fast from every village round the horse came spur- 
Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft ring in; 

her wide ! And eastward straight, foi- Mild Blackheath, the war- 
Our glorious semper eadem! the banner of our pride! like errand went; 

And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant 
The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's «nuires of Kent • 

' r ^ , „ , . , . , Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those 

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that hauffhty i • i,i ^ ..i, 

'^ o t, o J bright coursers forth ; 

scroll of gold : ,^. , , , , ^^ i , ., 

,,-.,, , i, 1 , , T. 1 ^, T High on black Hampstead s swarthy moor, they 

iNight sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple ° ■,..,,, ^ j 

sen- started for the north ; 

Suchnight in England ne'erhad been, nor ne'er again And on. and on, without a pause, untired they 

shall be. bounded still; 

From Eddvstone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night 

Milford Bay, fi'om hill to hill ; 

That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's 

day; rocky dales; 

For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radi- Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills 

ance spread — of Wales ; 

High on St. Michael's Mount it shone — it shone on Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

BeachyHead: lonely height; 

Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along ea,ch south- Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrckin's 

ern shire. crest of light; 

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's 

points of fire. stately fane. 

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tainar's glittering ^^^ town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the bound- 

^^■'"^^^e^' less plain; 

The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's ^^^^ Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent, 

suHxess caves; And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale 

O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the ^f t',.„„'-. 

^ ' 01 lient; 

fiery herald flew, rpjjj gtidaaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunfs em- 
And roused the shepherds of Stouehenge — the ran- battled nile 

gers of Beaulieu. j^^^ ^j^^ ^.^^1 .^^^ ^^ Skiddaw roused the burghers of 
Right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night Carlisle 

from Bristol town; 
And, ere the day. three hundred horse had met on Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

Clifton Down. 



382 THE GOLDEN TREASUHY. 

THE "REVENGE."^A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 



^^pT Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Gi-euville lay, Sir Richard spoke, and he laughed, and we roar'd a 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying hurrah, and so 



|jfj from far away ; The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 

"If "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted foe; 

' fifty-three!" With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 



Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " Fore God, sick below ; 

I am no coward. For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of were seen, 

gear. And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea- 
And the half my men are sick; 1 must fly, but follow lane between. 

^^^^'^ ' Thousands of their soldiers look"d down from their 
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty- ^^ , ^ ^^^ lauo-h-d- 

three'" ' "^ ' 

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 

little craft 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: •'! know you are Running on and on, till delay'd 

no coward : By their mountain-like San Philip, that, of fifteen 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again : hundred tons. 

But I've ninety men and more that are Ijing sick And up-shadowing high above us A\ith her j'awning 

ashore. tiers of guns, 

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Took the breath from om- sails, and we stay"d. 

Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of -^""i '''^^'^ ^^^^^ ^^^ g^'^^* ^an Philip bung above us 

Spain." li'^'^ ^ ^lo"'^ 

MTience the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war Four o-alleons drew away 

that day, From the Spanish fleet that day. 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer ^nd two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 

beaveu; board lay. 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from .^n,} the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

the land 

Very carefully and slow, But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 
Men of Bideford in Devon, aiid went, 

And we laid them on the ballast down below; Having that within her womb that had left her ill- 
For we brought them all aboard, content; 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 

left to Spain, li:^»d to hand. 

To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

Lord. musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

^litikcs Ills GRr^ 

He had only a hmidred seamen to work the ship and ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^. .^^^^ ^^'^ ^^.^^^^. ^^, ^^^^^ ^^^^^^_ 

to fight. 

And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 

in sight, over the siunmer sea. 

With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the wcathei- But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

bow. the fiftj'-three. 

"•Shall we fight or shall we fly? Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-liuilt 
Good Su- Richard tell us now, galleons came. 

For to fight is but to die ! Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle 
There "11 be little of us left by the time this sun be thunder and flame ; 

set." Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Eng- her dead and her shame. 

lishmen; For some were simk and many were shatter'd, and so 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the could fight us no more — 

devil, God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 
For I never turned mj' back upon Don or devil yet." before? 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



383 



For he said, "Fight on! fight on! " 

Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it clianeed that, when half of the short sununer 

night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be di'est he had left the deck, 
But a hullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and 

head. 
And he said, "Fight on! light on! " 
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 

over the summer sea. 
And the Spanish lleet with broken sides laj' round us 

all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear"d that 

we still could sting. 
So they watched what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seing fortj^ of our jjoor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 

strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 

stark and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the pow- 
der was all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

side; 
But Sir Eichard cried in his English pride, 
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have M-on great glory, my men ! 
And a daj^ less or more 
At sea or ashore. 
We die^does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner! sink her! split her 

in twain! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain!" 

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made 

reply : 
"We have children, we have wives. 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 

let us go ; 



We shall live to fight again and to strike another 
blow." 

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 
foe. 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 
him then, 

AYhere they laid him by the mast, old Sir Eichard 
caught at last. 

And they praised him to his face with a courtly for- 
eign grace; 

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 

"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 
man and true ; 

I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 

With a joyful spirit I, Sir Eichard Grenville, die! " 

And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true. 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 

cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English 

few : 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 

knew, 
But they sank his body with honor down into the 

deep, 
And they mann'd the Eevenge, with a swai-thier alien 

crew. 
And away she sailed with her loss, and longed for her 

own; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke 

from sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the weather to 

moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is raised b.y an earth- 
quake grew. 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 

masts and their flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shat- 
tered navj^ of Spain, 
And the little Eevenge herself went down by the 

island crags 
To be lost evex'more in the main. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



-T_E3--?(r-E_r- 



THOUSAND glorious actions that might claim 
Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame, 
Confused in clouds of glorious actions lie, 
And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die. 
The war's whole art each private soldier knows, 
And with a gen'i-al's love of conquest glows. 



ll^EHOLD, in awful march and dread array, 
^^P The long-extended squadrons shape theh- way! 
Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts 
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts ; 
Yet do their beating hearts demand the strife, 
And thirst of glory quells the love of life. 



384 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 




THE BATTLE OF WATEELOO. 



AD it not rained on the night of the 17th of June, 1815, the future of 
Europe would have been changed. A few drops of water, more or 
less, prostrated Napoleon. That Waterloo should be the end of Auster- 
litz. Providence needed only a little rain; and an unseasonable cloud 
crossing the sky sufficed for the overthrow of a world ! The battle of 
Waterloo — and this gave Bliicher time to come up — could not be 
commenced before half-past eleven. Why? Because the ground was 
soft. It was necessary to wait for it to acquire some little firmness, 
so that the artillery could manoeuvre. Had the ground been dry and 
the artillery able to move, the action would have been commenced at 
six o'clock in the morning. The battle would have been won and 
finished at two o'clock, thi'ee hours before the Prussians turned the 
scale of fortune. How much fault is there on the part of Napoleon in the loss 
of this battle? His plan of battle was, all confess, a masterpiece. To march straight 
to the centre of the allied line, pierce the enemy, cut them in two, push the British 
half upon Hal and the Prussian half upon Tongres, make of Wellington and Bliicher 
two fragments, carry Mont Saint-Jean, seize Brussels, throw the German into the 
Ehine and the Englishman into the sea — all this, for Napoleon, was in this battle. 
What would follow, anybody can see. 

Those who would get a clear idea of the battle of Waterloo, have only to lay 
down upon the ground, in their mind, a capital A. The left stroke of the A is the 
road from Nivelles ; the right stroke is the road from Genappe ; the cross of the A is 
the sunken road from Ohain to Braine-l'Alleud. The top of the A is Mont 
Saint-Jean — Wellington is there; the left-hand lower point is Hougoumont — Reille 
is there, with Jerome Bonaparte; the right-hand lower point is La Belle Alliance — 
Napoleon is there. A little below the point where the cross of the A meets and cuts 
the right stroke, is La Haie Sainte. At the middle of this cross is the precise point 
where the final battle-word was spoken. There the lion is placed, the involuntary 
symbol of the supreme heroism of the Imperial Guard. The triangle contained at the 
top of the A, between the two strokes and the cross, is the plateau of Mont Saint-Jean. 
The struggle for this plateau was the whole of the battle. Both generals had carefully 
studied the plain of Mont Saint-Jean, now called the plain of Waterloo. Already, in 
the preceding year, Wellington, with the sagacity of prescience, had examined it as a 
possible site for a great battle. On this ground, and for this contest, Wellington had 
the favorable side, Napoleon the unfavorable. The English army was above, the 
French army below. 

Toward four o'clock the situation of the English army was serious. Hougoumont 
yielding. La Haie Sainte taken — there was but one knot left — the centre. That still 
held. Wellington reinforced it. He called thither Hill, who was at Merbe-Braine, and 
Chasse, who was at Bi'aine-l'Alleud. The centre of the English ai'my, slightly con- 



cave, very dense, and very compact, held a strong position. It occupied the plateau 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 385 

of Mont Saint-Jean, with the village behind it, and in front the declivity, which at that 
time was steep. Wellington, anxious but impassible, was on horseback, and remained 
there the whole day in the same attitude, a little in front of the old mill of Mont 
Saint-Jean, which is still standing, under an elm, which an Englishman, an enthusiastic 
vandal, has since bought for two hundred francs, cut down, and carried away. AVclling- 
ton was frigidly heroic. The balls rained down. His aide-de-camp, Gordon, had just 
fallen at his side. Lord Hill, showing him a bursting shell, said: "My lord, what 
are your insti-uctions, and what orders do you leave us, if you allow yourself to be 
killed?" "To follow my example," answered Wellington. To Clinton he said, 
laconically, "Hold this spot to the last man!" The day was clearly going badly. 
Wellington cried to his old companions of Talavera, Vittoria, and Salamanca: " Boys, we 
must not be beat! What would they say of us in England! " 

About four o'clock the English line staggered backward. All at once, only the artillery 
and sharpshooters were seen on the crest of the plateau; the rest disappeared. The regi- 
ments, driven by the shells and bullets of the French, fell back into the valley, now crossed 
by the cow-path of the farm of Mont Saint-Jean ; a retrograde movement took place ; the 
battle-front of the English was slipping away. Wellington gave ground. " Beginning 
retreat!" cried Napoleon. At the moment when Wellington drew back. Napoleon started 
up. He saw the plateau of Mont Saint-Jean suddenly laid bare, and the front of the 
English army disappear. It rallied, but kept concealed. The Emperor half rose in his 
stirrups. The flush of victory passed into his eyes. Wellington hurled back on the forest 
of Soignies, and destroyed — that was the final ovei'throw of England by France ; it 
was Cressy, Poitiers, Malplaquet, and Kamillies avenged. The man of Marengo was 
wiping out Agincourt. The Emperor rose and reflected. Wellington had fallen back. 
It remained onlj^to complete this repulse by a crushing charge. Napoleon, tux'ning 
abruptly, sent off a courier at full speed to Paris to announce that the battle was won. 

Napoleon was one of those geniuses who rule the thunder. He had found his 
thunderbolt. He ordered Milhaud's cuirassiers to cai-rythe plateau of Mont Saint-Jean. 
They were three thousand five hundred. They formed a line of half a mile. They were 
gigantic men on colossal horses. They were twenty-six squadrons, and they had behind 
them a strong support. Aide-de-camp Bernard brought them the Emperor's order. Ney 
drew his sword and placed himself at their head. The enormous squadrons began to 
move. Then was seen a fearful sight. All this cavalry, with sabres drawn, banners 
waving, and trumpets sounding, formed in column by division, descended with even 
movement and as one man — with the precision of a bronze battering-ram opening a 
breech. An odd numerical coincidence — twenty-six battalions were to receive these 
twenty-six squadrons. Behind the crest of the plateau, under cover of the masked 
battery, the English infantry formed in thirteen squares, two battalions to the square, and 
upon two lines — seven on the first, and six on the second — with musket to the shoulder, 
and eye upon their sights, waiting, calm, silent, and immovable. They could not see the 
cuirassiers, and the cuirassiers could not see them. They listened to the rising of this tide 
of men. They heard the increasing sound of three thousand horses, the alternate and 
measured striking of their hoofs at full trot, the rattling of the cuirasses, the clinking of 
the sabres, and a sort of fierce roar of the coming host. There was a moment of fearful 
silence; then, suddenly, a long line of raised arms brandishing sabres appeared above the 



386 THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 

crest, with casques, trumpets, and standards, and three thousand faces, with gray mus- 
taches, crying: " Vive V Empereur! " All this cavalry debouched on the plateau, and it 
was like the beginning of an earthquake. 

All at once, tragic to relate, at the left of the English, and on our right, the head 
of the column of cuirassiers reared with a frightful clamor. Arrived at the culminatins: 
point of the crest, unmanageable, full of fury, and bent upon the extermination of the 
squares and cannons, the cuirassiers saw between themselves and the English a ditch — a 
ffrave. It was the sunken road of Ohain. It was a frightful moment. There was the 
ravine, unlooked for, yawning at the verj^feet of the horses, two fathoms deep between its 
double slopes. The second rank pushed in the first, the third pushed in the second; the 
horses reared, threw themselves over, fell upon their backs, and struggled with their feet in 
the air, piling up and overturning their riders; no power to retreat. The whole column 
was nothing but a projectile. The force acquired to crush the English crushed the French. 
The inexorable ravine could not yield until it was filled; riders and horses rolled in 
together pell-mell, grinding each other, making common flesh in this dreadful gulf; and 
when the grave was full of living men, the rest rode over them and passed on. Almost a 
third of Dubois's brigade sank into this abyss. Here the loss of the battle began. 
A local tradition, which evidently exaggerates, says that two thousand horses and fifteen 
hundred men were buried in the sunken road of Ohain. This undoubtedly comprised 
all the other bodies thrown into this ravine on the morrow after the battle. 

Xapoleon, before ordering this charge of Milhaud's cuirassiers, had examined the 
ground, but could not see this hollow road, which did not make even a wrinkle on the 
surface of the plateau. Warned, however, and put on his guard by the little white chapel 
which marks its junction with the Xivelles road, he had, probably on the contingency of an 
obstacle, put a question to the guide Lacoste. The guide had answered " No." It may 
almost be said that from this shake of a peasant's head came the catastrophe of Napoleon. 

At the same time with the ravine, the artillery was unmasked. Sixty cannon and the 
thirteen squares thundered and flashed into the cuirassiei's. The bi'ave General Delord 
gave the military salute to the English battery. All the English flying artillery took 
position in the squares at a gallop. The cuirassiers had not even time to breathe. The 
disaster of the sunken road had decimated but not discouraged them. They were men 
who, diminished in numbers, grew greater in heart. 

"Wathier's column alone had suffered from the disaster. Delord's, which Ney had 
sent obliquely to the left, as if he had a presentiment of the snare, arrived entire. The 
cuirassiers hurled themselves upon the English squares. At full gallop, with free rein, 
their sabres in their teeth and their pistols in their hands, the attack began. There are 
moments in battle when the soul hardens a man, even to changing the soldier into a statue, 
and all his flesh becomes granite. The English battalions, desperately assailed, did not 
yield an inch. Then it was frightful. All sides of the English squares were attacked 
at once. A whirlwind of fi-enzy enveloped them. This fi-igid infantry remained impass- 
ible. The first rank, with knee on the ground, received the cuirassiers on their bayonets, 
the second shot them down; behind the second x'ank, the cannoneers loaded their guns, the 
front of the square opened, made way for an eruption of grape, and closed again. The 
cuirassiers answered by rushing upon them with crushing force. Their great horses reared, 
trampled upon the ranks, leaped over the bayonets, and fell, gigantic, in the midst of these 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 387 

four living walls. The balls made gaps in the ranks of the cuirassiers; the cuirassiers 
made breaches in the squares. Files of men disappeared, ground down beneath the 
horses' feet. The cuirassiers, relatively few in number, lessened by the catastrophe of the 
ravine, had to contend with almost the whole of the English army; but they multiplied 
themselves — each man became equal to ten. Nevertheless, some Hanoverian battalions 
fell back. Wellington saw it, and remembered his cavalry. Had Napoleon, at that 
very moment, remembered his infantry, he would have won the battle. This forgetfulness 
was his great, fatal blunder. 

Suddenly the assailing cuirassiers perceived that they were assailed. The English 
cavalry was upon their back. Before them the squares, behind them Somerset — Somei'set, 
with the fourteen hundred dragoon guards. Somerset had on his right Domberg, with his 
German light-horse; and on his left Trip, with the Belgian carbineers. The cuirassiers, 
attacked front, flank, and rear, by infantry and cavalry, were compelled to face in all 
directions. What was that to them? They were a whirlwind. Their valor became 
unspeakable. The cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteen, took or spiked 
sixty pieces of cannon, and took from the English regiments six colors, which three 
cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the guard carried to the Emperor before the farm of La 
Belle Alliance. The situation of Wellington was growing worse. This strange battle was 
like a duel between two'wounded infuriates, who, while yet fighting and resisting, lose all 
their blood. Which of the two shall fall first? 

At five o'clock Wellington drew out his watch, and was heard to murmur these 
sombre words, " BlUcher, or night!" It was about this time that a distant line of 
bayonets glistened on the heights beyond Frichemont. Here is the turning-point in this 
colossal drama. The rest is known: the irruption of a third army; the battle thrown 
out of joint ; eighty-six pieces of artillery suddenly thundering forth ; a new battle 
falling at nightfall upon our dismantled regiments ; the whole English line assuming 
the offensive, and pushing forward; the gigantic gap made in the French army; the 
English grape and the Prussian grape lending mutual aid; extermination, disaster in 
front, disaster in flank; the Guard entering into line amid the terrible crumbling. 
Feeling that they were going to their death, they cried out, " FVve V Empereur! '' 
There is nothing more touching in history than this death-agony bursting forth in 
acclamations. Each battalion of the Guard, for this final effort, was commanded by a 
general. AVhen the tall caps of the grenadiers of the Guard, with their large eagle- 
plates, appeared, symmetrical, drawn up in line, calm, in the smoke of that conflict, the 
enemy felt respect for France. They thought they saw twenty victories entering upon 
the field of battle, with wings extended, and those who were conquerors, thinking them- 
selves conquered, recoiled; but Wellington cried, "Up, Guards, and at them!" The 
red regiment of English Guards, lying behind the hedges, rose up. A shower of grape 
riddled the tri-colored flag fluttering about our eagles ; all hurled themselves forward, 
and the final carnage began. The Imperial Guard felt the army slipping away around 
them in the gloom and in the vast overthrow of the rout; they heard the '■'■ Sauve qui 
peutf which had replaced the ^'■Vive V Empereur!''' and, with flight behind them, 
they held on their course, battered more and more, and dying faster and faster, at 
every step. There were no weak souls or cowards there. The privates of that band 
were as heroic as their general. Not a man flinched from the suicide. 



388 



THE GOLDEX TKEASLTRY. 



The rout behind the Guard was dismal. The army fell back rapidly from all sides 
at once. The cry, " Treachery I " was followed by the cry, '■'■ Saiive qui pent!'' A 
disbanding army is a thaw. The whole bends, cracks, snaps, floats, rolls, falls, crashes, 
hurries, plunges. Mysterious disintegration I Napoleon gallops along the fugitives, 
harangues them, urges, threatens, entreats. The mouths which in the morning were 
cr^'ing ''Yive V Empeveur! '' are now agape. He is hardly recognized. The Prussian 
cavalry, just come up, spring forward, fling themselves ujDon the enemy, sabre, cut, hack, 
kill, exterminate. Teams rush off; the guns ai-e left to the care of themselves; the 
soldiers of the train unhitch the caissons, and take the horses to escape ; wagons 
upset with their four wheels in the air, block up the road, and are accessories of 
massacre. They crush and they crowd; they trample upon the living and the dead. 
Arms are bi'oken. A multitude fills roads, paths, bridges, plains, hills, valleys, woods, 
choked up by the flight of forty thousand men. Cries, despair; knapsacks and muskets 
cast into the growing rye ; passages forced at the point of the sword ; no more com- 
rades, no more officers, no more generals: inexpressible dismay. 

In the gathering night, on a field near Genappe, Bernard and Bertrand seized by 
a flap of his coat and stopped a haggard, thoughtful, gloomy man, who, dragged thus 
far by the current of the rout, had dismounted, passed the bridle of his horse under 
his arm, and, with bewildered eye, was returning alone towai'd Waterloo. It was 
Napoleon, endeavoring to advance again — mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream. 

Victor Hugo. 

=4< ^^5^-5 -*■ 



WATERLOO. 



-,v 



iv 



cITHERE was a so;md of revelry by night, 
ift^ And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o"er fair women and brave 

men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily: and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage -bell; 
But hush I hark I a deep soimd strikes like a rising 
knell : 

Did ye not hear it? Xo: "t was hut the wind 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: 
On with the dance I let joy be unconfined: 
Xo sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet: 
But hark I — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat: 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before I 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

Ah ! then and there was hurr^-ing to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden pai-tings. such as press 



The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed. 
ITie mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
AATiile thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips. — '-The foe I They 
come I thev come I " 



And wild and high the 
ing;" rose! 



•The Cameron's gather- 



The war-notes of Lochiel, which AlbjTi's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too. have her Saxon foes; — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 
ears ! 

Lord Byron. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



389 



THE UNRETURNING BRAVE. 






SND Ardeiiues waves above them her green 
leaves. 
Dewy with uature's tear-drops, as they pass; 
'4' Grieving, if aught inanimate e"er grieves, 
Over the uuretiiruing brave; — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall gi'ow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in beautj''s circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal- sound of strife. 
The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stei'n array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thiclc with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 



Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partl3' because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong. 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered. 
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard ! 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee. 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live. 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive 
With all her reckless birds upon the Ming, 
I turned from all she brought, to those she could not 
bring. 

Lord Byron. 



-N!S-»»=e 




THE CHAEGE OF THE LIGHT BEIGADE. 



HE whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment, according to 
the numbers of Continental armies, and yet it was more than we 
could spare. As they rushed toward the front, the Eussians opened 
on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with volleys of 
musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glittering in the 
morning sun in all the pride and splendor of war. We could scarcely 
believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful of men are 
not going to charge an army in position ! Alas ! it was but too true. 
Their desperate valor knew no bounds, and far indeed was it removed 
from its so-called better part — discretion. They advanced in two 
lines, quickening their pace as they closed toward the enemy. A 
more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who beheld these heroes 
rushing to the arms of death. At the distance of twelve hundred yards the whole 
line of the enemy belched forth from thirty iron mouths a flood of smoke and flame, 
through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gai)s m 
our ranks, by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the 
plain. The first line is broken! — it is joined by the second! — they never halt, or 
check their speed an mstant. With diminished ranks — thinned by those thirty guns, 
which the Eussians had laid with the most deadly accuracy — with a halo of flashing steel 
above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they 
flew into the smoke of the batteries; but, ere they were lost from view, the plain was 
strewed with their bodies, and with the carcasses of hoi-ses. They were exposed to an 




390 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a direct fire of 
musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing as they 
rode up to the guns and dashed between them, cutting down the gunners as they stood. 
To our delight, we saw them returning after breaking through a column of Russian 
infantry, and scattering them like chaff, when the flank-fire of the battery on the hiU 
swept them down, scattered and broken as they were. Wounded men and dismounted 
troopers flyino- toward us told the sad tale. Demigods could not have done what they 
had failed to do. 

At the very moment when they were about to retreat, an enormous mass of 
lancers was hurled on their flank. Colonel Shewell, of the Eighth Hussars, saw the 
danger, and rode his few men straight at them, cutting his way through "with fearful 
loss. The other regiments turned, and engaged in a desperate encounter. "With 
courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way through the col- 
umns which enveloped them, when there took place an act of atrocity without parallel 
in the modern warfare of civilized nations. The Russian gunners, when the storm of 
cavalry passed, returned to their guns. They saw their own cavalry mingled with the 
troopers who had just ridden over them ; and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian 
name, the miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass of 
struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common ruin! It was as 
much as our heavy cavalry brigade could do to cover the retreat of the miserable 
remnants of the band of hei'oes as they returned to the place they had so lately 
quitted. At thirty-five minutes past eleven not a British soldier, except the dead and 
dying, was left in front of the Russian guns. 

William Howard Russell. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



^l^pALF a league, half a league, 
«sdy Half a league onward, 
^;^ All in the valley of Death 
J'L Rode the six hundred. 
f " Forward, the Light Brigade I 
I Charge for the guns ! '" he said ; 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!'" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valle.v of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to i-ight of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 
Volleyed and thundered; 



Stormed at witli sliot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as thej^ turned iu air. 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All tlie world wondered: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke. 
Right through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them 
Volleved and thundered : 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



391 



Stormed at with shot aud shell, 
While horse aud hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 
Left of six hundred. 



\VTien can tlieir glory fade? 
O, the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

ISToble six hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 





THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA. 



; EVER did the painter's eye rest on a more beautiful scene than I beheld 
from the ridge. The fleecy vapors still hung around the mountain-tops, and 
mingled with the ascending volumes of smoke ; the patch of sea sparkled 
in the rays of the morning sun, but its light was eclipsed by the flashes 
which gleamed from the masses of armed men below. Looking; to the left, 
towards the gorge, we beheld six compact masses of Russian infantry, 
W'hich had just debouched from the mountain-passes near the Tchernaya, 
and were slowly advancing with solemn stateliness up the valley. Im- 
mediately in their front was a regular line of artillery, of at least twenty 
pieces strong. Two batteries of light guns were already a mile in 
advance of them, and were playing with energy on the redoubts, from 
which feeble puffs of smoke came at long intervals. Behind these guns, 
in front of the infantry, were enormous bodies of cavalry. They were 
in six compact squares, three on each flank, moving down en echelon 
towards us, and the valley was lit up with the blaze of their sabres, and lance-points, and 
gay accoutrements. In their front, and extending along the intervals between each battery 
of guns, were clouds of mounted skirmishers, wheeling and whirling in the fx'ont of their 
march like autumn leaves tossed by the wind. The Zouaves close to us were lying like 
tigers at the spring, with ready rifles in hand, hidden chin-deep by the earthworks which run 
along the line of these ridges on our rear ; but the quick-eyed Russians were manoeuvring 
on the other side of the valley, and did not expose their columns to attack. Below 
the Zouaves we could see the Turkish gunners in the redoubts, all in confusion as the shells 
burst over them. Just as I came up, the Russians had carried No. 1 Redoubt, the furthest 
and most elevated of all, and their horsemen were chasing the Turks across the interval 
which lay between it and Redoubt No. 2. At that moment the cavalry, under Lord Lucan, 
were formed in glittering masses — the Light Brigade, under Lord Cardigan, in advance; 
the Heavy Brigade, under Brigadier-General Scarlett, in reserve. They were drawn up just 
in front of their encampment, and were concealed from the view of the enemy by a slight 
"wave" in the plain. Considerably to the rear of their right, the 93d Highlanders were 
drawn up in line, in front of the approach to Balaklava. Above and behind them, on the 
heights, the marines were visible through the glass, drawn up under arms, and the gunners 
could be seen i-eady in the earthworks, in which were placed the heavy ships' guns. The 
93d had originally been advanced somewhat more into the plain, but the instant the 
Russians got possession of the first redoubt they opened fire on them from our own guns. 



392 THE GOLDE]S" TKEASITIY. 

which inflicted some injury, and Sir Colin Campbell "retired" his men to a better position. 
Meantime the enemy advanced his cavalry rapidly. To our inexpressible disgust we saw 
the Turks in Redoubt No. 2 fly at their approach. They ran in scattei'ed groups across 
towards Redoubt No 3, and towards Balaklava; but the horse-hoof of the Cossack was too 
quick for them, and sword and lance were busily plied among the retreating herd. The 
yells of the pursuers and pursued were plainly audible. As the Lancers and Light Cavalry 
of the Russians advanced, they gathered up their skirmishers with great speed and in 
excellent order — the shifting trails of men, which played all over the valley like moonlight 
on the water, contracted, gathered up, and the little peloton in a few moments became 
a solid column. Then up came their guns, in rushed their gunners to the abandoned 
redoubt, and the guns of No. 2 Redoubt soon played with deadly effect upon the dispirited 
defenders of No. 3 Redoubt. Two or three shots in return from the earthworks, and all is 
silent. The Turks swarm over the earthworks, and run in confusion towards the town, 
firing their muskets at the enemy as they run. Again the solid column of cavalry opens 
like a fan, and resolves itself into a " long spray" of skirmishers. It laps the flying Turks, 
steel flashes in the air, and down go the poor Moslem quivering on the plain, split through 
fez and musket-guard to the chin and breast-belt ! There is no support for them. It 
is evident the Russians have been too quick for us. The Turks have been too quick also, 
for they have not held their redoubts long enough to enable us to bring them help. In 
vain the naval guns on the heights fire on the Russian cavalry ; the distance is too great for 
shot or shell to reach. In vain the Turkish gunners in the earthen batteries, which are 
placed along the French intrenchments, strive to protect their flying countrymen; their 
shot fly wide and short of the swarming masses. The Turks betake themselves towards 
the Highlanders, where they check their flight, and form into companies on the flanks of 
the Highlanders. As the Russian cavalry on the left of their line crown the hill across 
the valley, they perceive the Highlanders drawn up at the distance of some half-mile, 
calmly waiting their approach. They halt, and squadron after squadron flies up from the 
rear, till they have a body of some 1,500 men along the ridge — lancers, and dragoons, and 
hussars. Then they move en echelon in two bodies, with another in reserve. The cavalry, 
who have been pursuing the Turks on the right, are coming up to the ridge beneath us, 
which conceals our cavalry from view. The Heavy Brigade in advance is drawn up in two 
lines. The first line consists of the Scots Greys, and of their old companions in glory, the 
Enniskillens ; the second, of the 4th Royal Irish, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and of the 
1st Royal Dragoons. The Light Cavalry Brigade is on their left, in two lines also. The 
silence is oppressive; between the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and 
the clink of sabres in the valley below. The Russians on their left drew breath for a 
moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath 
their horses' feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red 
streak topped with a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at eight hundred yards, and 
run. As the Russians come within six hundred yards, down goes that line of steel in 
front, and out rings a rolling volley of Minie musketry. The distance is too great : the 
Russians are not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke, with the whole force 
of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our batteries above. With 
breathless suspense every one awaiting the bursting of the wave upon the line of the Gaelic 
rock ; but ere they come within a hundred and fifty yards, another deadl}^ volley flashes 



CAMP AISTD BATTLE. 393 

from the levelled rifle, and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, 
open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. " Bravo, Highlanders ! well 
done ! " shouted the excited spectators ; but events thicken. 

The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon foi-gotten, men scarcely have a 
moment to think of this fact, that the 93d never altered their formation to receive 
that tide of horsemen. "No," said Sir Colin Campbell, "I did not think it worth 
while to form them even four deep!" The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite 
sufficient to rejDel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers. Our eyes were, however, 
turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-General Scarlett ride 
along in front of his massive squadron. The Russians — evidently corps cV elite — their 
light-blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left, at an easy 
gallop, towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and 
several squadrons of grey-coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they 
reached the summit. The instant they came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave 
out the warning-blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the 
shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, and 
groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and bodies of French 
infantry on the height, were spectators of the scene as though they were looking on 
the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, 
and not a word was said. The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, 
which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least 
double the length of ours — it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar 
line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking 
enemy; but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley, 
and the Greys and Enniskilleners went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. 
The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was scarce enough to let 
the horses "gather way," nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of 
their sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advances, 
and threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left, so as 
to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart — 
the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through the air at the same instant. As 
lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskilleners pierce through the dark 
masses of Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel 
and a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the redcoats dis- 
appear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see 
them emersing and dashing on with diminished numbers, and in broken order, against 
the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can to retrieve the for- 
tune of the charge. It was a terrible moment. "God help them! they are lost!" 
was the exclamation of more than one man, and the thought of many. With unabated 
fire the noble hearts dashed at their enemy. It was a fight of heroes. The first line 
of Russians, which had been smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled off at one 
flank and toAvards the centre, were coming back to swallow up our handful of men. 
By sheer steel and sheer courage, Enniskillener and Scot were winning their desperate 
way right through the enemy's squadrons, and already grey horses and redcoats had 
appeared right at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force, like one 



394 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY, 



bolt from a bow, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon 
Guards, rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy; went through it as 
though it were made of pasteboard; and, dashing on the second body of Russians 
as they were still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, 
put them to utter rout. This Russian horse, in less tl^an five minutes after it met our 
dragoons, was flying with all its speed before a force certainly not half its strength. 
A cheer burst from every lip — in the enthusiasm, officers and men took off their caps 
and shouted with delight, and thus keeping up the scenic character of their position, 
they clapped their hands again and again. 

William Howard Russell. 






BALAKLAYA. 



-•H^-T. . 



pT, the charge at Balaklava ! 

Oh, that rash and fatal charsre 
'ifjl ,' Xever was a fiercer, hi'aver. 
i|^ Than that charge at Balaklava, 

On the battle's bloody marge ! 
All the day the Eussiau columns. 

Fortress huge, and blazing banks, 
Poured their dread destructive volumes 
On the French and English ranks, 
On the gallant allied ranks ! 
Earth and skj' seemed rent asunder 
By the loud, incessant thunder! 
Wlien a strange but stei-n command — 
Xeedless, heedless, rash command — 
Came to Lucan's little band — 
Scarce six hundred men and horses 
Of those vast contending forces : — 
''England's lost unless j'ou save her! 
Charge the pass at Balaklava!" 

Oh that rash and fatal charge. 
On the battle's bloody marge! 

Far away the Eussian Eagles 

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, 

And their hordes, like howling beagles. 

Dense and countless, round them yell! 

Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, 

Sweep the field in every quarter! 

Xever since the days of Jesus, 

Trembled so the Chersonesus ! 

Here behold the Gallic Lilies — 
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — 
Float as erst at old Eamillics, 
And beside them, lol the Lion! 
With her trophied cross is flying! 

Glorious standards — shall they waver 

On the fields of Balaklava? 

Xo, by Heavens! at that command — 

Sudden, rash, but stern cominand — 

Charges Lucan's little band! 

Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge, 
On the battle's bloodv marge! 



Down j-on deep and skirted valley, 

Where the crowded cannon play — 

Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, 

Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli.^ 

Down that gorge they swept awayl 

Down that new Thermopylsis. 

Flashing swords and helmets see! 

Underneath the Iron shower, 

To the brazen cannon's jaws. 
Heedless of their deadly power. 

Press they without fear or pause, — 

To the very cannon's jaws! 
Gallant Xolan, brave as Eoland 

At the field of Eoncesvalles. 

Dashes down the fatal valley. 
Dashes on the bolt of death. 
Shouting with his latest breath. 
"Charge them, gallants! do not waver. 
Charge the pass at Balaklava!" 

Oh that rash and fatal charge. 

On the battle's bloody marge ! 

Xow the bolts of volleyed thunder 
Eend the little band asunder. 
Steed and rider wildly screaming. 

Screaming wildly, sink away: 
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming. 

Xow but lifeless clods of clay. — 
Xow but bleeding clods of clay! 
Xever, since the days of Jesus, 
Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! 

Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, 
Presses onward, onward, onward. 

Till thej' storm the bloody pass, — 
Till, like brave Leonidas, 
Lo, they storm the deadly pass! 
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, 
In that wild, shot-rended valley, — 
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, — 
Awfnl pass at Balaklava ! 

Oil that rasli and fatal charge. 
On that battle's bloody marge! 



C.UIP AND BATTLE. 



395 



For now Eussiu's rallied forces, 
SwiinniDg hordes of Cossack horses, 
Trampling o'er the reeking corses, 

Drive the thinned assailants back, 
Drive the feeble remnant back, 
0"er their late heroic track! 
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered, 
Vain your struggies, brave Two Hundred ! 
Thrice your number lie asleep, 
In that valley dark and deep. 



Weak and wounded you retire 
From that hurricane of lire; — 
But no soldiers firmer, braver, 

Ever trod the tield of fame, 
Thau the Knights of Balaklava, — 

Honor to each hero's name! 
Yet their country long shall moui-n 
For her ranks so rashly shorn 

lu that fierce and fatal charge. 

On the battle's bloody marge. 

Alexander B. Meek. 



tSONG OF THE CAMP. 



ilVE us a song! " the soldiers cried. 
The outer trenches guarding, 
\Vlien the heated guns of the cauips 
Grew weary of bombarding. 



allied 



The dark Redan, in silent scoff. 
Lay grim and threatening under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No louger belched its thunder. 

Thei-e was a pause. A guardsman said: 
"We storm the forts to-mori-ow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sori-ow.'" 

They lay along the battery's side. 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name. 

But all saug "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 
Until its tender passion 



Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. 

But as the song grew louder. 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean bui-ned 

The bloody sunset's embers. 
While the Crimeau valleys learned 

How English love remembei-s. 

And once again a tire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quartei-s. 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars. 

And Irish Norah's ej-es are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Wlio sang of "Annie Laui-ie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing; 
The bravest are the tenderest — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



= 0"-^-5s- = 0.^ 



THE DEFENSE OF LUCKNOAY. 



PLANNER of England! not for a season, O banner 
'^^ of Britain, hast thou 

"y^', - '' Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the 
j,|_ battle-cry! 

Never -with mightier gloiy than when we had 
reared thee on high. 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of 

Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised 

thee anew. 
And ever upon tlie t()i)most i-oof our banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

25 



Frail were the works that defended the hold that ^^•o 

held with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help them, our 

children and wives! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days oi- for twenty 

at most. 
"Never surrender, T charge you, but every man die at 

his post! " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence, the 

best of the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kissed him. we laid him 

that night in his grave. 



396 



THE GOLDEX TREA.SLTiY. 



'•Every man die at his post! " and tliere hailed on 

our houses and halls 
Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their 

caunou-balls. 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our 

slight barricade, 
Death while we stood with the musket, and death 

while we stoopt to the spade. 
Death to the dyiug. and wouuds to the wounded, for 

often there fell 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro" it. their shot 

and their shell. 
Death — for their spies were among us. their marks- 
men were told of our best. 
So that the brute bullet broke thro* the brain that could 

think foi- the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets 

would rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that 

girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth 

of a street. 
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace. 

and death in the ground 1 

Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine I down, down I and 
creep thro' the hole ! 

Keep the revolver in hand! you can hear him — the 
murderous mole I 

Quiet, ah I quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe 
be thro"! 

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again 
than before — 

Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer 
is no more ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eng- 
land blew! 

Ay. but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it 

chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap 

echoed away. 
Dark thro* the smoke and the sulphur, like so many 

fiends in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell 

upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defenses our mjTiad enemy fell. 
^\Tiat have they done? \Miere is it? Out yonder. 

Guard the Redan I 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! 

storm ! and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us. as ocean on every 

side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown"d 

by the tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold enough who 

shall escape? 
Kill or be killed, live or die. they shall know we are 

soldiers and men! 



Ready! take aim at their leaders — their masses ai-e 

gapped with our gi-ai)e — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave 

flinging forward again. 
Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could 

not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eug- 

laud blew. 

Handful of men as we were, we were English in 

heart and in limb. 
Sti'ong with the strength of the race to command, to 

obey, to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung 

but on him ; 
Still— could we watch at all points? We were every 

day fewer and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us. but only a whisper 

that past ; 
"Children and wives — if the tigers leap' into the fold 

unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive 

us at last — 
Better to fall l)y the hands that they love, than to fall 

into theirs! "" 

Roar upon roar, in a moment, two mines by the 

enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor 

palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, hut be sure that your 

hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your 

flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth fi-t)m tlie ladders to 

which they had cluug. 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive 

them with hand-grenades : 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

Then on another wild morning another wild earth- 
quake out- tore 
Clean from our lines of defense ten or twelve good 

paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the 

light of the sun — 
One has leapt upon the beach, crying out: ••Follow 

me. follow me! "" — 
Mark him — he falls! then another, and him too. and 

down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the 

traitors had won? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure! 

make way for the gun ! 
Now double-charge it with grape! It is charged and 

we fire, and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face 

have his due ! 



CAMP AXD BATTLE. 



397 



Thiinks to the kiudly dark faces who fought with us. Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment 

faithful and few, for grief. 

Fought with the hravest among us, and drove them. Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief. 



and smote them, and slew. 
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India 
blew. 

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. 

AVe can fight! 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the 

night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying 

alarms ; 
Biigles and drums iu the darkness, and shoutings and 

soundings to arms ; 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five. 



Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butchered for all that 
we knew, — 

Then day and pight, day and night, coming down on 
the still shattered walls, 

3Iillions of musket-bullets and thousands of cannon- 
balls,— 

But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

Hark ! cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what was told l)y 

the scout — 
Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the 

fell mutineers? 



Ever the marvel among us that one should be left Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our 

alive, ears ! 

Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loop- All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout. 



holes around. 
Ever the night with its cofHnless corpse to be laid intlic^ 

ground ; 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract 

skies. 
Stench of old offal decajing, and infinite torment of 

flies. 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an Eng- 
lish field. 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not 

be healed. 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless 

knife, — 
Torture and trouble in vain — for it never could save us 

a life ; 
Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed. 
Horror of women in travail among the dying and 

dead, 

^. a^5--£ 



Havelock"s glorious Highlanders answer with conquer- 
ing cheei-s. 

Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children 
come out. 

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's 
good fusileers. 

Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet 
with their tears ! 

Dance to the pibroch! — saved! we are saved! — is it 
you? is it you? 

Saved by the valor of Havelock. saved by the blessing 
of Heaven! 

••Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty- 
seven ! 

And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of 
England blew. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 



11 






|AKS PORSENA of Clusium, 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it. 

And named a tiysting-day. 
And bade his messengers ride foi-th. 
East and west and south and north. 

To summon his array. 



East and west and south and north 

The messengers ride fast. 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpefs blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his homo. 
Wlien Porsena of Clusimn 

Is on the march for Rome I 



The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place, 

From many a fruitful plain. 
From many a lonely hamlet. 

Which, hid by beech and pine. 
Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apennine : 

From lordly Volaterrse, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 
Piled by the hands of giants 

For godlike kings of old : 
From sea-girt Populonia, 

AVliose sentinels descry 
Sardinia's snowy mountain -tops 

Frinffins the southern skv : 



398 



THE GOLDElSr TEEASURY. 



From the prond mart of Pisne, 

Queen of the western waves. 
Where ride Massilia's trh'emes. 

Heavy with fair-haired slaves; 
From where sweet Clauis wanders 

Through corn and vines and flowers, 
From where Cortona lifts to heaven 

Her diadem of towers. 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 

Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 

Of the Cimiuian hill ; 
Beyond all sn-eams, Clitumnus 

Is to the herdsman dear; 
Best of all pools the fowler loves 

The great Volsiuian mere. 

But now no stroke of woodman 

Is heard by Auser's rill : 
No hunter tracks the stag's green path 

Vp the Ciminian hill ; 
Unwatched along Clitumnus 

Grazes the milk-white steer; 
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 

In the Volsinian mere. 

The harvests of Arretium, 

This year, old men shall reap; 
This year, young boys in Umbro 

Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 
And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 
Round the white feet of laughing girls 

Whose sires have marched to Rome. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the land. 
Who always by Lars Porsena 

Both morn and evening stand. 
Evening and morn the Thirty 

Have turned the verses o'er. 
Traced from the right on linen \\hite 

By mighty seers of j'ore ; 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
''Go forth, go forth. Lars Porsena. — 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven ! 
Go. and return in glory 

To Clusium's roj^al dome. 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome ! '' 

And now hath every citj' 

Sent up her tale of men ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand. 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array; 
A proud man was Lars Poi'scna 

Upon the trysting-day ; 



For all the Etruscan armies 

Were ranged beneath his ej'e,. 
And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally ; 
And with a mighty follo\\ing. 

To join the muster, ciime 
The Tusculan Mamilins, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affright ; 
From all the spacious chamijaign 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the citj' 

The throng stopped up the waj'S ; 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days- 

For aged folk on crutches. 

And women great with child. 
And mothers, sobbing over babes 

That clung to them and smiled, 
And sick men borne in litters 

High on the necks of slaves. 
And troops of sunburned husbandmeiv. 

With reaping-hooks and staves. 

And droves of mules and asses 

Laden with skins of wine. 
And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 

And endless herds of kine, 
And endless trains of wagons. 

That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods. 

Choked every roaring gate. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Cotdd the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
Tlie Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day. 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastsN'ard and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan bands. 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustumerium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain ; 
Astm- hath stormed Janiculum. 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat. 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul. 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns,. 

And hied them to the wall. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



399 



They held a council, standing 

Before the Kiver-gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess. 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

•• The bridge must straight go down; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scovxt came lljing. 

All wild with haste and fear : 
"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul, — 

Lars Porseua is here! " 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye. 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Else fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and neai'er 

Doth the red whirlwind come; 
And louder still, and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud. 
Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud. 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright. 

The long array of spears. 

And plainly and more plainly. 

Above that glimmering line, 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fail' cities shine ; 
But the banner of proud Clusinm 

Was highest of them all, — 
The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know, 
By port and vest.by hoivse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo : 
There Cilnius of An-etium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And Astur of the fourfold shield. 
Girt with the brand none else may wield ; 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold. 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thrasymene. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilns, 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 



But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman 
But spat towards him and hissed, 

No child but screamed out curses, 
And shook its little fist. 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe : 
"Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down; 
And if they once may win the bridge. 

What hope to save the town?" 

Then out spake brave Horatins, 

The Captain of the gate : 
"To eveiy man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late ; 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds 
For the ashes of his fathers. 

And the temples of his gods, 

"And for the tender mother 

Who dandled him to rest. 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame — 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrought the deed of shame? 

"Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me. 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon straight path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three: 
Now who will stand on either hand. 

And keep the bridge with me?" 
Then out spake Spurius Lartius, — 

A Ramniau proud was he : 
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
And out spake sti'ong Herminius, — 

Of Titian blood was he : 
"I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

"Horatins," qtioth the Consul, 

"As thou sayest so let it be." 
And straight against that great array, 

Went forth the dauntless three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold. 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 

In the brave davs of old. 



400 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



Then none was for a party — 

Theu all were for the state ; 
Then the great mau helped the poor. 

And the poor inau loved the great; 
'rheu lauds were fau'ly portioned, 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
ITie Romans Avere like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

More hateful than a foe. 
And the ti-ibuues beard the high. 

And the fathers grind the low. 
As we wax hot in faction. 

In battle we was cold; 
Wherefore men tight not as they fought 

In the brave days of .old. 

Now. while the three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs. 
The Consul was the foremost mau 

To take in hand an ax ; 
And fathers, mixed with commons, 

Seized hatchet, bar and crow, 
And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. ^ 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold. 
Came, flashing back the noonday light, 
Rank behind rank, like sui-ges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host, with measured tread. 
And spears advanced, and ensigns sju-ead. 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 

AV'here stood the dauntless three. 

The three stood calm and silent. 

And looked upon the foes. 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose ; 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array : 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the uarrow way. 

Annus, from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines: 
And Seius. whose eight hundred slaves, 

Sicken in Ilva's mines: 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in i)eace and war. 
Who led to tight his Umbrian powers 
From that gray crag where, girt with towers, 
■^rhe fortress of Xequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 



Stout Lartius hiuied down Aunus 

Into the stream beneath ; 
Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth 
At Picus brave Horatius 

Darted one fiery thrust. 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman three ; 
And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea ; 
And Aruns of Volsinium, 

Who slew the great \\ild boar. — 
The great wild boar that had his den 

Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 
And wasted fields and slaughtered meu 

Along Albinia's shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low : 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Hoi'atius sent a blow : 
"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! 
Xo more, aghast and pale. 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of th\- destroying bark : 
No more Campania's hinds shall i\y 
To woods and caverns, when they spy 

Thj' thrice-accursed sail!" 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes; 
A wild and wrathful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' length from the entrance. 

Halted that mighty mass. 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the uarrow pass. 

But. hark! the cry is "Astur!" 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans, 

A smile serene and high ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans. ' 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he. "The she-wolf's litter 

Stand savagely at bay: 
But will ye dare to follow. 

If Astur clears the way?" 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



401 



Then, whirling up his broad-sword 

With both hiuids to the height, 
He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his nught. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Eight deftly turned the blow. 
The blow though turned, came yet too nigh ; 
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space. 
Then like a wild-cat mad with wounds. 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth and skull and helmet 

So fierce a thrust he sped. 
The good sword stood a handbreadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke. 
As falls on Mount Avernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread ; 
And the pale augurs, nuittering low. 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel. 
And thrice and four times tugged amain, 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
And "See," he cried, "the welcome. 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer?" 

But at his haughty challenge 

A sullen murmur ran. 
Mingled with wrath and shame and dread. 

Along that glittering van. 
There lacked not men of prowess. 

Nor men of lordly race. 
For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses. 

In the path the dauntless three ; 
And from the ghastly entrance 

Where those bold Romans stood, 
All shrank. — like boys who, unaware. 
Ranging a wood to start a hare. 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair. 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 



Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack ; 
But those behind cried, "Forward! " 

And those before cried, •• Back! " 
And backward now and forwai-d 

Wavers the deep array; 
And on the tossing sea of steel 
To and fro the standards reel. 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crow d; 
Well known was he to all the three. 

And they gave him greeting loud : 
" Now, welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thi'ice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread; 
And, white with fear and hatred. 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood. 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile ax and lever 

Have manfully been plied ; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
"Come back, come back. Horatius! " 

Ijoud cried the Fathers all, — 
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall ! "' 

Back darted Spurius Lartius. — 

Herminius darted back ; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces. 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 

They would have crossed once more : 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam. 
And. like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream ; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And like a horse unbroken. 

AVhen first he feels the rein. 
The furious river struggled hard. 

And tossed his tawny mane. 



402 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



And burst the curb, and bounded. 

Rejoicing to be free: 
And ^vhirlino• down, in tierce career, 
Battlement and plank and pier. 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind. — 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad flood behind. 
•• Down with him! " cried false Sestns. 

With a smile on his pale face ; 
" Xow yield thee." cried Lars Porsena, 

'• Now yield thee to our grace! " 

Round turned he. as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see : 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he : 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 
And he spake to the noble rivei- 

That rolls by the towers of Rome : 

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans praj', 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arras, 

Take thou in charge this day! '" 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side. 
And. witli his harness on his back. 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank. 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
AVith parted lips and straining eyes. 

Stood gazing where he sank; 
And ^\ hen above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But rterceh" ran the current. 

Swollen high by months of rain; 
And fast his blood was flowing. 

And he was sore in pain. 
And heav}' with his armor. 

And spent with changing blows ; 
And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer. 

In such an evil case. 
Struggle through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing-place : 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good Father Tiber 

Bare bi-avely up his chin. 



"Curse on him! " quoth false Sextus, — 

"Will not the \illain drown? 
But for this stay, ere close of daj- 

We should have sacked the town ! "" 
'• Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena. 

•' And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands; 
And now, with shouts and clapping. 

And noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River-gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

TTiat was of public right. 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from moiii till night; 
And they made a molten image. 

And set it up on high, — 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see, — 
Horatius in his hai'ness. 

Halting upon one knee; 
And underneath is written. 

In letters all of gold. 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 

To charge the Volscian home; 
And wives still i)ray to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter. 

When the cold north-winds blow. 
And the long howling of the wolves 

Is heard amidst the snow ; 
When round the lonely cottage 

Roars loud the tempest's din. 
And the good logs of Algidus 

Roar louder yet within ; 

\Mien the oldest cask is opened, 

.And the largest lamp is lit; 
AMien the chestnuts glow in the embers, 

And the kid turns on the spit; 
AATien young and old in circle 

Around the firebrands close; 
When the girls are weaving baskets. 

And the lads are shaping bows ; 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



403 



AVTien the goodman mends his armor. 

And trims his hehnet's plume ; 
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

Goes flashing through the loom ; 



"With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the storj^ told, 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



•-e^TT- 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 

fallow glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from 

glories are I wing to wing 

?? And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry Down all our line in deafening shout, "God save our 
of Navarre! lord, the King! " 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and '-And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well 
the dance he may,— 

Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray. — 
pleasant land of France. _ Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst 

And thou. Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the ranks of war, 

the waters. 
Again let i-apture light the eyes of all thy mourning 

daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 

joy, 
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy 

walls annoy. 
Huj-rah! hurrah! a single field hath tui-ued the 

chance of war; 
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Na- 
varre. 



O, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn 
of day. 

We saw the ai-my of the League drawn out in long- 
array. 

AVith all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 

And AppenzeFs stout infantry, and Egmont's Flem- 
ish spears. 

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of 
our land, 

And dark Maj'enne was in the midst, a truncheon in 
his hand ; 

And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 
enpurpled flood. 

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his 
blood ; 

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 
fate of war. 

To fight for his own holy name and Heniy of 
Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor 

drest. 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest; 



And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of 
Navarre." 

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled 

din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring , 

culverin! 
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 

plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 

Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 

France, 
Charge for the golden lilies! upon them with the 

lance ! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 

spears in rest, 
A thousand knights arc pressing close behind the 

snow-white crest; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a 

guiding star. 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 

NavaiTC. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne 

hath turned his rein. 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish Count 

is slain; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clotuls before a 

Biscaj' gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags 

and cloven mail ; 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along 

our van, 
"Remember St. Bartholomew! '" was passed from 

man to man. 



He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his But out spake gentle Henry : "No Frenchman is my 

eye ; foe ; 

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was Down, down with every foreigner, but let your breth- 

stern and high. ren nro." 



404 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



O. was there evei" siicli a kuight. iu friendsliip or in Ho. burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watoh and ward 

war, to-night I 

As oui' sovei-eign lord, King Henry, the soldier of For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath 

Navarre? raised the slave. 

And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of 
Ho, maidens of Vienna I — ho, matrons of Lucerne I the hrave. 

Weei), weep, and rend your hair. for those who never Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories 

shall return. are; 

Ho. Philip ! send for charitj' thy Mexican pistoles. And glory to otir sovereign lord. King Henry of 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor Navarre ! 

spearmen's souls. 
Ho. gallant nobles of the League, look that your^ Thomas Babingtox Mac allay. 

arms be bright ! 



I^XIDEXT OF THE FRE^XII CAMP. 



:0U know we French stormed Eatisbon : 
A mile or so away, 
^f^ On a little mound. Napoleon 
i^. Stood on our storming-day ; 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how. 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow, 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, •• My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once m}' armj'-leader. Lannes, 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out "twixt the battery-smokes there 
flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardh' could sus^ject — 



(So tight he kept his lips compressed 
Scarce any blood came through.) 

You looked twice ere j'ou saw his breast 
Was all but shot in two. 

"Well.*' cried he. '-Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Eatisbon I 
The Marshal "s iu the market-place, 

And you '11 be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I. to heart's desire. ■ 
Perched him I" The chief "s eye flashed : his 
plans 

Soared up again like Are. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's ej'e 

AMien her bruised eaglet breathes : 
"You're wounded!" "Nay.'' his soldier's 
pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
"I'm killed, sire! " And. his chief beside. 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

ROBEKT Browning. 



^^i 



FOXTENOY. 

^jpHRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English The French artillery drove them back diminished 
S^*^ colunm failed. and dispersed. 

' . ,' And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with 
<^/ Dutch iu vain assailed: anxious eye. 

For town and slope were filled witli fort and And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance 
flanking battery. to try. 

• And well they swept the English ranks and On Fontenoy. on Fontenoy. how fast his generals 
Dutch auxiliary. ridel 

As vainly through De Barri's wood the British And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds 
soldiers bui"st, at eventide. 



cajvip and battle. 



405 



Six thousand English vetei'aus in stately column 

tread ; 
Their cannon blaze iu front and flanli. Lord Haj' is 

at their head. 
Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they 

mount the hill, 
Steady they load, steady thej' fire, moving right on- 
ward still. 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a 

furnace -blast. 
Through rampart, trench, and i^alisade, and bullets 

showering fast; 
And on the open plain above they rose and kept 

their course, 
With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at 

hostile force, 
Past Fontenojs past Fontenoy, while thinner grow 

their ranks. 
They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through 

Holland's ocean-banks. 

More idljr than the summer flies, French tirailleurs 
rush round; 

As stubble to the lava- tide, French squadrons strew 
the ground; 

Bomb-shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on 
they marched and fired ; 

Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigenr 
retired. 

"Push on my household cavalry I "" King Louis 
madly cried. 

To death they rush, but rude their shock, not un- 
avenged they died. 

On through the camp the column trod — King 
Louis turned his rein. 

''Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish 
troops remain.'' 

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Water- 
loo. 

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, 
and true. 

•'Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish; 

there are your Saxon foes!'' 
The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiouslj^ he 

goes. 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont 

to be so gay! 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 

hearts to-day: 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas 

writ could dry; 



Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their 

women's parting crj-; 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their 

country overthrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on 

him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever _yet elsewhere, 
Kushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud 

exiles were. 

O'Bi'ien's voice is hoarse with Joy, as, halting, he 

commands : 
"Fix bayonets^ charge! ■' Like mountain-storm 

rush on those fiery bands. 
Thin is the English column now, and faint their 

volleys grow. 
Yet inustei-ing all the strength they have, they 

make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that 

battle-wind ! 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the 

men behind! 
One volley crashes from their line, when through 

the surging smoke. 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the head- 
long Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce 

huzza ! 
"Eevenge! remember Limerick! dash down the 

Sacsanagh! " 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hun- 
ger's pang. 
Eight up against the English line the Irish exiles 

sprang; 
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns 

are filled with gore; 
Through scattered ranks and severed files and 

trampled flags they tore. 
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, 

rallied, scattered, fled; 
The green hillside is matted close with dying and 

with dead. 
Across the plain and far away passed on that 

hideous wrack. 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their 

track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun. 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand— the field is 

fought and won! 



Thomas Davis. 



-tsS-gs?- 



J^pE took my arms, and Avhile I forced my waj- 
ySs Through troops of foes, which did our passage 
stay. 
His buckler o'er my aged father cast. 
Still fighting, still defending, as I past. 



^^MB.VTTLED troops with flowing banners pass 
^&. Through flowery meads, delighted, nor distrust 
The smiling surface ; whilst the caverncd ground 
Bursts fatal, and involves the hopes of war 
In flery whirls. 



406 



THE GOLDEN TKEASLTIY. 



eg^ 



HOHENLINDE^. 



ii|N' Linden, when the sun was low. 



ml. 

«i>8# All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 

^p And dark as winter was the flow 

yi Of Iser. rolling rapidly. 



But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding tu'es of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 



"Tis morn, but scarce you level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank and fierj- Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopj-. 



By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed. 
To join the dreadful revehy. 



The combat deepens. On. ye brave. 
Who rush to glory or the grave I 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivaliw .' 



Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven. 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillerj'. 



Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



-3^S<^^ 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 



llgN their ragged regimentals. 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging- 
Cannon-shot! 
"WTien the flies 
Of the isles. 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner 
of the rampant 

Unicorn, 
And grummer, gruramer, gruuuner, rolled the roll of 
the drummer. 

Through the mornl 

Then \\'ith eyes to the front all. 
And with guns horizontal. 

Stood our sires; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the flres ; 
As the roar 
On the shore. 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sod- 
ded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun- 
powder, 

Crackiuo; amain! 



Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And the "villainous saltpetre"' 
Eung a fierce, discordant meti-e 
Round their ears ; 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping auger, came the horse-guards' 
clangor 

On our flanks : 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash- 
ioned Are 

Through the )-anks! 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped througli the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broad-sword was swinging: 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew. 
And the ti'ooper jackets redden at the touch of the 
leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six- 
l)()iuider. 

Hurling death! 

Gl V IIU.MPHREY McMASTER. 



CAMP AI^D BATTLE. 407 

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE. 

As she saw it from the Belfry. — J line 17, 1775. 

^|||IS like stirring living embers when, at eighty, In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was 
0!^ one remembers the stiunijiug 

■ji ■' All the achiugs and the qnakings of '• the times Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden 
"ii* that tried men's souls; " leg be wore. 

When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky I 

story, had found him, — 

To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning So I followed with the others, and the Corporal 
coals. marched before. 

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running They were making for the steeple,- — the old soldier 

battle ; and his people ; 

Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their i-ed coats The pigeons cu'cled round us as we climbed the 

still ; creaking stair. 

But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up Just across the narrow river — O, so close it made me 

before me, shiver! — 

When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterda.y was 

Bunker's Hill. bare. 

'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first Not slow our ej-es to find it; well we knew who stood 

thing gave us warning behind it, 

Was the booming of the cannon from the river and Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the 

the shore ; stubborn walls were dumb : 

"Child,"' says grandma, " what's the matter, what is Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon 

all this noise and clatter"? each other. 

Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us And their lips were white with terror as thej- said. 

once more"? " " The hour has come ! "' 

Poor old soul ! my sides were shaking in the midst of The morning slowly Avasted, not a morsel had we 

all my quaking tasted. 

To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to And our heads Avere almost splitting Avith the cannons' 

roar : deafening thrill. 

She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter When a figure tall and stately round the rampart 

and the pillage, strode sedately; 

When the Mohawks killed her father, with their bullets It was Prescott, one since told me ; he commanded 

through his door. on the hill. 

Then I said, "Noav, dear old granny, don't you fret Every Avoman's heart grew bigger Avhen Ave saw his 

and Avorry any. manly figure. 

For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so 

work or play ; straight and tall ; 

There can't be mischief in it, so I Avou't be gone a Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for 

minute" — pleasure, 

For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he 

day. Avalked around the Avail. 

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grim- At eleven the sti-eets Avere swarming, for the red- 

acing; coats' ranks were forming; 

DoAvn my hair went, as I bm-ried, tumbling half-way At noon in marching order they Avere moving to the 

to my heels; piers; 

God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood Hoav the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we 

around her flowing, looked far down and listened 

lIoAv the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted 

feels! grenadiers! 



408 THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 

At length the meu have started, with a cheer (it The deadly trnce is ended; the tempest's shroud is 

seemed faint-hearted). reuded; 

In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud 

their hacks. it hreaks I 
And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea- 

tighfs slaughter. the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke 

Eound the barges gliding onward blushed like blood blows over I 

along their tracks. The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes 

his hay; 

So they crossed to the other border, and again they Here a scarlet heap is lying . there a headlong crowd 

formed in order; i* flyiug 

And the boats came back for soldiers, came for sol- Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into 

diers. soldiers still : spray. 
The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and 

fastino- Then we cried, •• The troops are routed! they are beat 



At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly 
up the hill. 



— it can't be doubted! 
God be thanked, the light is over! "■ — Ah! the grim 

old soldier's smile ! 
"Tell us, tell us why you look so? " (we could hardly 

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines speak, we shook so) 

advancing— '-Ai-e they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they 

Now the fi^ont rank fires a volley — they have thrown beaten?" "Wait a while." 

away their shot ; 

For behind the earthwork lying, all the balls above /-, ^i ^ it i v, . x » 

• *= O the tremblmg and the terror! for too soon we saw 



them living. 



our error : 



Our people need not hurry ; so they wait and answer „, i, ^ , ^ i x .. j i i ■ ^-u 

^ * .' 1 / They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them 

not. 11- 

back in vain; 

And the columns that were scattered, round the colors 
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would s^\ ear [jj^^ were tattered. 

sometimes and tipple),— Toward the sullen silent forti-ess turn their belted 
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French breasts ao-ain. 

war) before. — 

Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were j^y .^t once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charles- 
hearing, — to^^-n blazing ! 

And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty They have fired the harmless viUage; in an hour it 

belfry fioor:— ^^-iH ^e down! 

The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and 
'•Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's brimstone round them.— 

shillln's, The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a 
But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a -rebel' falls; peaceful town! 

You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as 

Dan'l Malcolm They are marching, stern and solemn : we can see 
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splin- each massive column 

tered with your balls! " As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting 

walls so steep. 

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepida- Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless 

tion haste departed? 

Of the dread approaching moment, we arc well-nigh Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied 

breathless all ; or asleep? 

Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety bel- 

■f |»TT I**! 1 1 1 Tl O* 

- o" Now! the walls thev're almost under! scarce a rod the 

We are crowding up against them like the waves foesa«under' 

against a wall. ^^^ ^ firelock flashed against them ! up the earthwork 

they will swarm ! 

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer) . they are nearer.— But the words have scarce been spoken, when the 

nearer. — nearer. ominous calm is broken. 

When a flash— a curling smoke-wreath— then a crash And a bello^^^ng crash has emptied all the vengeance 
— the steeple shakes— of the storm! 



C.O^IP AND BATTLE. 



409 



So aguiu, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward 

to the water. 
Fly Pigofs running heroes and the frightened braves 

of Howe; 
And we shout, '-At last they're done for, it's their barges 

they have run for : 
They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over 

now I " 

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough 

old soldier's features, 
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we 

would ask : 
"Not sure,'' he said; "keep quiet— once more, I guess 

they'll try it : 
Here's damnation to the out- throats !'— then he 

handed me his flask. 

Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of 

old Janiaiky ; 
I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is 

done;" 
So I took one scorching swallow ; dreadful faint I felt 

and hollow. 
Standing there from earl}' morning when the firing 

was begun. 

All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm 

clock dial. 
As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were 

creeping round to four. 
When the old man said. "They're forming, with their 

bagonets fixed for storming : 
It's the death-grip that's a coming, — they will try the 

works once more." 

With brazen ti'umpets blaring, the flames behind them 
glaring. 

The deadly wall before them, in close array they 
come; 

Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold un- 
coiling — 

Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating 
drum I 

Over heaps all torn and gory— shall I tell the fearful 
story, 

How they surged above the breast\vork, as a sea 
breaks over a deck ; 

How. driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men 
retreated. 

With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swim- 
mers from a wreck? 



It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say 

I fainted. 
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with 

me down the stair; 
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening 

lamps were lighted, — 
On the floor a youth was lying : his bleeding breast 

was bare. 

And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for ^V'arren 1 

hurry! hurry! 
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and 

dress his wound! " 
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death 

and sorrow. 
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and 

bloody ground. 

WTio the youth was, what his name was, where the 

place from which he came was, 
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left 

him at our door, 
He could not speak to tell us; but "t was one of our 

brave fellows, 
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying 

soldier wore. 

For they all thought he was dj'ing, as they gathered 

round him crying, — 
And they said, " O, how they '11 miss him!" and, 

"What will his mother do'?" 
Then, his eyelids just unclosing, like a child's that 

has been dozing, 
He faintly murmured, "Mother!" and — 1 saw 

his eyes were blue. 

— "Why, grandma, how you 're winking! " — Ah. my 

child, it sets me thinking 
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived 

along ; 
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him 

like a — mother. 
Till at last he stood befoi'e me. tall, and rosy-cheeked, 

and strong. 

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 

smnmer weather; 
— "Please to tell us what his name was?" — Just your 

own, my little dear, — 
There 's his picture Copley painted : we l)ecame so 

well acquainted. 
That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you 

children all are hei-e ! 

Oliver W^endell Holmes. 



|NE rally of a hero's soul 
Does all the military art control : 
"\Miile timorous wit goes round, or fords the shore. 



He shoots the gulf, and is already o'er. 
And, when the enthusiastic fit is spent. 
Looks back amazed at what he underwent. 



410 



THE GOLDEN TREASUHT. 




THE BLACK HOHSE A^^D HIS EIDER 

T was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, 
gazing steadfastly upon the two armies, now arrayed in order of battle. 
It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The 
sky was cloudless ; the foliage of the woods scarce tinged with purple 
and gold ; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. 
But the tread of legions shook the ground ; from every bush shot the 
glimmer of the rifle-barrel : on every hillside blazed the sharpened 
baj^onet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions 
of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the 
ground, and a chorus of shouts and 'groans yelled along the darkened 
air. The play of death had begun. The two flags — this of the stars, 
that of the red cross — tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky w^as clouded with 
leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. 

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they 
stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was 
something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. 
Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air — he points to the 
distant battle, and lo ! he i.> gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over 
the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of cannon smoke, you 
may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. 
Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his 
legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is 
away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent 
sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down 
the long columns of battle? 

Let us look for a moment into those clouds of battle. Over this thick hedge bursts 
a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scatter- 
ing their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come 
rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this 
moment of their flight a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider 
reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of these broad-shouldered militia- 
men. " Now cowards ! advance another step and I"ll strike 3'ou to the heart!" shouts 
the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and 
fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride 
you down !" This aj^peal was not without its effect. Their leader turns ; his comrades, as 
if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront 
thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. " Now upon the rebels — charge!" shouts 
the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look ! their ba^^onets 
almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider 
was heard: " Now let them have it ! Fire ! " . A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty 
Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speech- 



less as stone. 



The remaining ten start back. 



Club your rifles and charge them home ! 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 411 

shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then 
a confused conflict — a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the 
rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. 

Thus it was all the daylong. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there 
followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. 
That fortress yonder, on Bemus' Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost ! 
That cliff is too steep — that death is too certain. The oflicers cannot persuade the men to 
advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron 
men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder ! In this moment, when 
all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider 
bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his 
hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his 
veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look ! now hold your breath, 
as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers ! he totters ! he falls ! 
No ! no ! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face 
and shouts: "• Come on, men of Quebec ! come on ! " That call is needless. Already the 
bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in 
tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can ! 
For look ! there in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black 
horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as 
the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates, waiting 
yonder in his tent, " Saratoga is won ! " As that cry goes up to heaven he falls, with his 
leg shattered by a cannon-ball. 

Who was the rider of the black horse ? Do you not guess his name ? Then bend 
down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former 
wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the hlack 
horse was — Benedict Arnold. 

Charles Sheppard. 

5(5— E"! • 



THE BATTLE OP THE COWPENS. 

[Jan. 17, 1781.1 

HPiO the Cowpens, rising proudly, boasting loudl_v, All the day before we fled them, and we led them to 

^^ rebels scorning, pursue us. 

Jk Taiietou hurried, hot and eager for the Then, at night, on Thickety mountain made our 

* fight; camp; 

From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that TTiere we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming 

January morning, to us, 

Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' 

himself by flight. heavy ti'amp. 

In the morn he scoi'ned us rarely, but he fairly found Morning on the mountain border ranged in oi'der found 

his error, our forces, 

Wlien his force was made our ready blows to feel; Ere the scouts announced the coming of the foe; 

When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and "While the hoai'-frost lying near us, and the distant 

pallid terror water-courses. 

At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like 

our steel. silver in their glow. 
20 



412 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet 
them with such favor 
That they scarce would care to follow us agaiu ; 
In the rear, the Continentals — none were readier nor 
braver ; 
In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our 
mountain men. 

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, 
with his forces 
Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall. 
Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw- 
houed country horses. 
Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from 
Georgia by M'Call. 

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, 
slow advancing — 
It was tlien upon the very nick of nine. 
Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their 
bayonets glancing. 
And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying 
scarlet line. 

In the distance seen so dimlj', they looked grimly; 
coming nearer. 
There was naught about them fearful, after all, 
Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling 
water clearer, 
"Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's 
mercy is the ball." 

Then the memory came unto me, heavj% gloomy, of my 
brother, 
"Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand; 
Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and 
my mother 
From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the 
land. 

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spm-ned 
and beaten. 
Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame; 
Of the wi'etches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill 
up to rafter 
Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, 
consuming tlame. 

But that memory had no power there in that hour 
there to depress me — 
No ! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire ; 
And I grip])ed my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and 
heart grew stronger ; 
And r longed to meet the wTonger on the sea of 
steel and fire. 

On they came, our miglit disdaining, where the rain- 
ing bullets leaden 
Pattered fast from scattered rilles on each wing ; 



Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground 
began to i-edden : 
And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger 
ere his spring. 

Then said Morgan: '-Ball and powder kill much 
prouder men than George's ; 
On your rifles and a careful aim rely. 
They were trained in many battles — we in workshops, 
fields and forges ; 
But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not 
fear to die."' 

Though our leader's ^^'ords we cheered not, yet we 
feared not; we awaited. 
Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came : 

Up the sloping hillside swiftly rushed the foe so 
fiercely hated ; 

On they came with gleaming bayonet "mid the can- 
non's smoke and flame. 

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly 
o'er the j-elliug 
Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone ; 
With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre 
features telling 
In their look the pride that filled him as the cham- 
pion of the throne. 

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, 
crashing, came the firing 
Of om- forward Ijne ujion their close-set ranks; 
Then at coming of their steel, ^\"hich moved with 
steadiness untiring. 
Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order oq 
our flanks. 

'ITien the combat's ranging anger, din, and clangor, 
round and o'er us 
Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the 
ground ; 
Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while 
their sabres shone before us. 
Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the 
smoky cloud around. 

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madlj'' bound- 
ing from the mountain. 
Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar ; 
Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human 
freshet raging 
Of the siu-ging current urging past a dark and 
bloody shore. 

Soon the course of fight was altered ; soon they fal- 
tered at the leaden 
Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre 
swerve. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



413 



Taiietou's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste do- 
began to redden; mestic sweetness, 
Tarleton gave the closing order — "Bring to action Having many years been parted from their children 
the reserve! "' and their wives. 



Up the slope his legion thundered, fiill three hundred ; 
fiercel}' spurring. 
Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks ; 
And their A\orn and weary comrades, at the sound so 
spirit-stirring. 
Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their 
shattered ranks. 



Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet 
them, friend to shield them ! 
To their home o'er ocean never sailing back; 
After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had 
sealed them; 
Yelped the dark and red-cj'ed sleuth-hound unre- 
lenting on their track. 



By tlie wind the smoke-cloud lifted liglitly drifted to 
the nor"\\ard. 
And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe ; 
We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, 
moving forward, 
With tiieir banners proudly waving, and their bay- 
onets levelled low. 



In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his 
waist I noted 
Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white ; 
When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I de- 
voted 
Him, from all the hireling wretches who ^\■ere min- 
gled there in flight. 



Morgan gave his order clearly — " Fall back nearly to 
the border 
Of the hill, and let the enemy come nigher! " 
Oh ! the}' thought we had retreated, and they charged 
in fiej-ee disorder. 
When out rang the voice of Howard — "To the 
right about, face ! — Fire ! " 



For that token in the sunnner had been from our 
cabin taken 
By the robber-hands of Mrongers of luj' kin; 
'Twas my sister's — for the moment things around me 
were forsaken ; 
I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's 
din. 



Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our 
volley. 
And our balls made red a pathway down the hill; 
Broke the foe and shrank and cowered ; rang again 
the voice of Howard — 
'•Give the hireling dogs the bayonet! "'■ — and we 
did it with a \\ill. 



Olden comrades round me Ij'ing dead or dying w ere 
unheeded ; 
Vain to me thej' looked for succor in their need ; 
O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools 
I speeded. 
Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly 
bounding steed. 



In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, rid- 
ing faster 
Than their comrades on our rear in f urj^ bore ; 

But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought 
it to disaster, 

For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it 
fast and soi'C. 



As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes 
he shivered ; 
Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim : 
As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve \\ilhin 
him quivered, 
For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought 
for him. 



Like a herd of startled cattle from the battle-field ^\•e 
drove them; 
In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled ; 
Tarleton led them in the racing; fast he fled before 
our chasing. 
And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed 
not for the dead. 

DoMTi the Mill-gap road they scurried and they 
hm-ried with such fleetness — 
We had never seen such running in our lives ! 



Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward car- 
ried, down I bore him — 
Horse and i-ider — down together went the twain : 
'•Quarter!" — He! that scarf had doomed him! stood 
a son and brother o'er him ; 
Down through plume and brass and leather went 
my sabre to the brain — 
Never music like that crashing through the skull-hone 
to the brain ! 

Thomas Di •^'^• English. 



414 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



MONTEREY 




[Sept. 19-24, 1S46.] 



i«^i>E were not many — we who stood 
§']|g;^ Before the u-ou sleet that day; 
'^A'f^ Yet many a gallant spirit would 
kI Give half his years if but he could 
1 Have with us been at Monterey. 

Xow here, now there, the shot it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round him wailed 

Their djing shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on our column kept, 

ITirough walls of flame, its withering way ; 
"WTiere fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the gims which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 



The foe himself recoiled aghast. 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
And, braving full their murderous blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Otir banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
^\Tiere orange-boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He"d rather share their ^\•arrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 

Charles Fenno Hoffman. 



^.<.=-^-^»0" — 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 



^Rh^INE eyes have seen the o;lory of the oorainff of 
^^ the Lord: 

/•(^-ivv jje is trampling out the vintage where the 

I] grapes of wrath are stored ; 

He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible, 
swift sword : 
His ti'uth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch -fii'es of ahundred circling 
camps ; 

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flar- 
ing lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
"As j"e deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal; 



Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 
his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment- 
seat ; 

O, be swift, mj- soul, to answer him! be jubilant, 
my feet! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 

sea. 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 

me; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
free. 
■\\1iile God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



MY MARYLAND. 



||HE despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the sti-eets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 

Marjiand. my Maryland! 



Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maiyland ! 
For life or death, for woe or weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel. 

Maryland, my Maryland I 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



415 



Thou wilt not cowei- iu the dust, 

Maryland I 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland I 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust. 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, mjr Maryland! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Mai-yland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" Sic semper ! " 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Marjdand, my Maryland ! 

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thj^ dalliance does thee wrong, 

Marvland I 



Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Libert}' along. 
And chant thj' dauntless slogan-song, 
Maryland, my Maiyland! 

I see the blush upon thj- cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravelj' meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there sui-ges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the Are upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than cruciflxiou of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

1 hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 
The " Old Line's " bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland I 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza! she spurns the Xorthern scum — 
She bi-eathes ! She burns! She'll come I She'll come! 
Maryland, ni}- Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 



-s-^se-T- 



THE COUNTERSIGN. 




jAS ! the weary hours pass slow. 

The night is very dark and still ; 
And in the marshes far below 
I hear the bearded whippoorwill ; 
I scarce can see a yard ahead. 

My ears are strained to catch each sound; 
I hear the leaves about me shed. 
And the spring's bubbling through the ground. 

Along the beaten path I pace. 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form with bending back, 
I think I see him crouching low : 

I stop and list — I stoo)) and peer. 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch. 

Until my eyes, familiar grown, 
Detect each harmless earthern notch. 

And turn guerrillas into stone; 



And then, amid the lonely gloom. 
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees. 

My silent marches I resume. 

And think of other times than these. 

"Halt ! "VVTio goes there?" my challenge cry. 

It rings along the watchful line ; 
"Relief !" I hear a voice reply; 

"Advance, and give the countersign!" 
With baj^onet at the charge I wait — 

The corporal gives the mystic spell; 
With arms aport I charge my mate. 

Then onward pass, and all is well. 

But in the tent that night awake, 

I ask, if in the fray I fall. 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call? 
And pray that Heaven may so ordain. 

Where'er I go, what fate be mine, 
Whether in pleasure or in pain, 

I still maj' have the countersign. 



41(3 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



THE PICKET GUARD. 




X 



SLL quiet along the Potomac." thej' sa}', 
"Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he wallis on his beat to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket; 
"T is nothing — a private or two now and then 
"Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
ot an offlcer lost ^ only one of the men. 
Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle." 



All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

"VMiere the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents in the raj-s of the clear autumn moon. 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A treuuilous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 
"WTiile stars up above, with their glittering eyes. 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There "s only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. 

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack — -his face, dark and grim. 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 



As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 
For their mother — may Heaven defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightlj" as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

"Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. 

He dashes off tears that are welling. 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pibe-tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light. 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark I Avas it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? 

"Was it moonlight so suddenly flashing? 
It looked like a rifle •• Ahl Mary, good-bye!"" 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night; 

No sound save the rush of the river; 
"\Miile soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

The picket "s off duty forever! 

Ethkl Lynn Beeks. 



-S'DS^ 



BETHEL. 



.^E mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed. As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute. 

^^M^] And the whisper went round of a fort to be So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their 
y^'\ stormed ; pursuit ; 

jj Btit no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet But the soft zephjTS chased us, with scents of the 
we heard, morn. 

And no voice of command, but our Colonel's low As we passed by the hay-flelds and green waving 
word. — corn. — 

"Column I Forward !"" "Column! Forward!"' 



And out. through the mist and tlie murk of the morn, 
I rom the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne ; 
And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the 

oar. 
Till the word of our Colonel came up from the shore — 
" Column ! Forward ! " 

With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight. 

As ye dance to soft nuisic. so trod we that night; 

Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines over- 
arched. 

Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we 
marched, — 

" Column ! Forward ! " 



For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, 
And the flowers and the foliage \\ith sweets were in 

tune; 
And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb. 
That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a 

dnnn, — 

" Colunm ! Forward ! '' 

Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze. 
And the buskins of Morn brushed the tops of the 

trees. 
And the glintings of glory that slid from her track 
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back, — 
" Colunm ! Forward ! " 



CAMP AND BATTT.E. 



417 



And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, 

And the bliie-erested hill-tops with roselight were 
kissed, 

And the earth gave her praj'ers to the sun in per- 
fumes. 

Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on 
blooms, — 

"Column ! Forward ! " 

Ay! trampled ou blossoms, and seared the sweet 

breath 
Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death ; 
O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a 

blast. 
And away to the fore-front of battle we passed, — 
•• Column ! Forward ! " 

For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the 

glades. 
And the sun was like lightning on banners and 

blades, 



When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood. 
From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as 
blood, — 

"Column! Forward! " 

While the sound of their soug, like the surge of the 

seas. 
With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the 

leas ; 
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch led the way. 
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day,— 
" Column ! Forward ! " 



thrown, 
And like corn b}^ the red scythe of fire we Avere mown; 
While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed 

the plain, 
Tlaat our blood might be planted for Libertj^'s grain, — 
" Column ! Forward ! " 

***** 

AOGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE. 



?.S-^Lr- 



CIVIL AVAR. 



W^j 



J|IFLEMAiSr, shoot me a fancy shot 
H^ Straight at the heart of yon prowling 
^i vidette; 

i Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 

That shines on his breast like an amulet! " 

"Ah, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead 
There 's music around when my barrel 's in tune! " 

Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped. 
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. 

"Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
blood — 

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
That gleams In the moon like a diamond stud." 

" Captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette ; 



For he looked so like you as he la j' on his back. 
That my heart rose upon nie, and masters me yet. 

"But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of gold; 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way. 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket! — 'tis she, 
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 

Was her husband — Hush! soldier, "t was Heaven's 
decree ; 
We must bury him here, b,y the light of the moon! 

" But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite ; 

War is a virtue — weakness a sin; 
There 's lurking and loping around us to-night; 

Load again. Rifleman, keep j'our hand in! " 

Charles Dawson Shanly. 



^aS-^^ 



HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY ? " 






"^^OWlSr the picket-guarded lane 
Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 

Soldier-like and merry : 
Phrases such as camps may teach. 
Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech. 
Such as " Bully ! " " Them's the peach ! 
"Wade in. Sanitary! " 



Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through. 
Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military ; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — 
" U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese! " 

" Pass in, Sanitary! " 



418 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front ^\ as won. 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo! was stationarj-; 
And where bullets whistling fly. 
Came the sadder, fainter crj', 
" Help ns. brothers, ere we die, — 

Save us. Sanitary ! " 



Such the work. Tlie phantom flies, 
WrapiDcd in battle clouds that rise ; 
But the brave — whose djiug eyes. 

Veiled and ^dsionaiy. 
See the jasper gates swung Avide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride : 

" Pass in, Sanitary! " 

BliET Hakte. 



-1T~£<?^^ 




*' How he strode his bro\vn steed ! How we saw his blade brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his teeth ! " 



KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES. 

[May 31, 1S62.I 

siO that soldierly legend is still on its journey,— Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose 

That story of Kearney who knew not to highest, 

yield! 'WTiere the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf 

•^' 'T was a day when with .Jameson, fierce Berry. oak and i)ine. 

and Birney. A\1iere the aim from the thicket was surest and nigh- 

Against twentj' thousand he I'allied the est. — 

field, Xo cliaroe like Phil Kearnev's along the whole line. 



fm 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



419 



When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our 
ground, 
He rode down the length of the withering column. 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ; 

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our powder, — 

His s\\'ord ^\■aved us on and we answered the sign : 

Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the 

louder, 

"There 's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole 

line! '' 

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his 
blade brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his 
teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten. 
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 



Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal. 
Asking where to go in, — through the clearing or 
pine? 

'• O, anywhere ! Forward ! 'T is all the same. Colonel : 
You '11 find lovely flghtiug along the whole line! " 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly. 

That hid him from sight of his brave men and ti-ied ! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's 
pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still. — in that shadowy region 
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum- 
mer's sign, — 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 
And the word still is Forward! along the whole 
line. 

Edmund Clakence Stedman. 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 

[The " Carrier's New Year Address" of The Louisville Journal, January i, 1S63.] 

^SmS Cannier cannot sing to-day t?ie bal- H.?id w/fo totd the story to t?ie Assistant Stfr- 



tads 

With jfhic/i ?ie used to go 
"Rhyming the glad rounds of the ?ia2)py JVew 
lears 
That are now beneath the snow: 

For the same awful and portentous Shado7i^ 

That oyercast tfte earth, 
A.nd smote t7te land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens eye}y hearth. 



geon 
0?i the same night that he died. 

Sut the singer feels it will better suit t?ie bal- 
lad. 

If all sliould deem it right. 
To tell the story as if what it speaks of 

Had happetted but last night. 



:^nd the Cai-rier hears Seethoyen's mighty "Come a little nearer. Doctor, — thank yon; let me 



death-march 
Come up from eyery ntart, 
jind he hears and feels it breathing in his 
bosom, 
Atid beating in his heart. 

jind to-day, a scarred and weather-beateti 
yeteran. 

Again he comes along. 
To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 

In another j\''ew Tear's song. 

And the song is his, but not so with t7ie story j 

For the story, you tnust k?iow. 
Was told in prose to Assistant-Siergeon 
Austi}?, 

Sy a soldier of Shiloh : 

!Sy Robert Surton, who was brought up on 
the Adams, 
With his death-wound in his side j 



take the cup : 
Draw your chair up. — draw it closer; Just another 

little sup ! 
May be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty 

well used up, — 
Doctor, youv-e done all you could do, but I'm Just 

a-going up! 

'• Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it aint much 

use to trj^"' — 
"Never say that." said the Surgeon, as he smothered 

down a sigh ; 
"It will never do. old comrade, for a soldier to say 

die!" 
""What you sny will make no difference. Doctor, 

when you come to die." 

'•Doctor, what has been^ the matter?" "You were 

very faint, they say; 
You must tiy to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I 

been awav? " 



420 THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 

"Not that anybody knows of! " •• Doctor — Doctor, '■ Dr. Austin! — what day is this?" '• It is "VVediies- 

please to stay! day night, you know." 

There is something I must tell you, and you won't "Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right 

have long to stay ! good time below I 

What time is it. Dr. Austin?" "Nearly Twelve.'' 
•• I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now " Then don t you go ! 

(-Q o-o- Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an 
Doctor, did you say I fainted?— but it couldn't ha' hour ago! 

been so. 

For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at "There was where the gunboats opened on the dark 

Shiloh rebellious host; 

I've this veiT night been back there, on the old field And where Webster semi-cireled his last guns upon 

of Shiloh! the coast; 

There were stiU the two log-houses, just the same, or 
"This is all that I remember: The last time the else their ghost— 

Lio-bter came -^'^ ^^® same old transport came and took me over — 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises orits ghost. 

much the same. 

He had not been gone five minutes before something "-^id the old field lay before me. aU deserted, far 

called my name : '"^^^ wide : 

'Orderly Sergeant — Egbert Burton! '—just There was where they fell on Prentiss — there Mc- 

that way it caUed my name. Clernand met the tide; 

There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where- 
" And I wondered who could call me so distinctly Hmibnt's heroes died. — 

and so slow Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 
Knew it couldn't be the Lighter, he could not have charging till he died. 

spoken so. 

And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir! ' but I couldn't " ITiere was where Lew Wallace showed them he was 

make it go ; o* the canny kin, 

For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 

„Q_ Eousseau waded in ; 

There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began 

" Then I thought : It's all a nightmare, aU a humbug to win 

and a bore; There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we 
Just another foolish grape-oine* — and it won't come began to win. 

any more ; 

But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way " ^o^^' ^ shroud of snow and silence over eveiything 

as before: was spread; 

' Orderlv Sergeant — Egbert Burton !' — even -^^^ ^ut for this old blue mantle and the old hat on 

louder than before. '»>' head, 

I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of dead.— 

]jo-iit For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the 
And I stood beside the Eiver. where we stood that dead ! 

Sunday night. 

Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, » Death and silence ! — Death and silence ! all around 
When the river was perdition, and all hell was oppo- u^^ .ig i sped ! 

site . ^mj jjehold, a might}- Tower, as if builded to the 

dead, 

" And the same old palpitation came again in aU its To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its inightj' 

power, head. 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial TiU the Stars and Sti'ipes of Heaven all seemed wa\ing 

Tower; from its head! 

And the same mysterious voice said: -It ts the 

Eleventh Hour! ,,„ i i ■ v,^ i, i -i. .. ■, .. ,u 

^ „ „ -r^ "Round and mights' based it towered up into the 

Orderly Sergeant — Egbert Burton — it is the • « -, 

_ TT . , infinite — 

Eleventh Hour!' a iti *. i 1 1 i, ^ ^^^. ^ f*. 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft 

* A false ston-, a hoax. SO bright ; 



CAJMP AND BATTLE. 



421 



For it shoue like solid sunshine; and a winding stair 'But the great Tower?' 'That was huilded of the 

of light great deeds of the Brave ! ' 

Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out 

of sight! "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of 

light; 

'•And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and 

dazzled stare,— bright; 

Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the 'Ah I" said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to- 
great stair, — night!' 

Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — 'Halt!' and 'Hurry back, — you must be here at just twelve o'clock 

'Who goes there?" to-night!' 

'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are!' 'Then advance, sir, 

to the Stair!' "And the next thing I remember, you were sitting ^ftere 

and I 

"I advanced! That sentry, doctor, was Elijah Bal- Doctor — did you hear a footstep? Hark! — God bless 

lantyne ! you all ! Good bye ! 

First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, 

the line ! when I die, 

'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by To my son— my son that's coming — he won't get here 

that countersign!' till I die! 

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak 

of mine. "Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never did 

before, — 

"As he grasped my hand I shuddered, thinking only And to carry that old musket" Hark! a knock is 

of the grave; at the door! 

But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright and "Till the Union" See! it opens! "Father! 

bloodless glaive : Father! speak once more!" 

'That's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' 'What Head- ^'■Bless you" — gasped the old gray Sergeant. And he 

quarters?" >0f the Brave!' lay and said no more ! 

FORCEYTHE WiLLSON. 

^. a'-exs^-s .4.. 

SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 



gP from the South at break of day 
siK^j Bringmg to Winchester fresh dismay, 
X The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
I Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door. 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar. 
Telling the battle was on once more. 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
Making the blood of the listener cold. 
As he thought of the stake in that iier}' fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down; 

And there through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 

As if he knew the terrible need. 

He stretched away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 



Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster. 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls. 

Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play. 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind. 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild e.ye full of rtie. 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 

Wha' was done, — what to do, — a glance told him 

both. 
And striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 



422 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY, 



He dashed down the line, "mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of reti-eat checked its course there 

because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
AYith foam and with dust the black charger was 

gray; 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day."' 



Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan I 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky, — 
The American soldiers" Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
Bj"- carrying Sheridan into the flght. 
From Winchester. — twentj' miles away! '" 

Thomas Buchanan Read 




'He's in the saddle now I — Fall in ! 
Steady, the whole brig-ade!" 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAT. 



^OjNIE, cheerily, men, pile on the rails. 
And stir the camp-fires bright; 
No matter if the canteen fails. 

We'll have a roaring night! 
Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
There burly Blue-Ridge echoes strong. 
To swell the brigade's rousing song 
Of Stonewall Jackson's wav! 



We see him now — his old slouched hat 

Cocked o'er his eye askew. 
His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat. 

So calm, so blunt, so true; 
The blue-light Elder knows "em well. 
Sa.vs he. "That's Banks— he's fond of shell! 
Lord save his soul — we'll give him Hell!" 

That's Stonewall Jackson's wav! 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



423 



Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off! 

Old Stonewall's going to pray ! 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 

Attention ! 'Tis his way ! 
Kneeling upon his native sod 
Infnrma pauperis to God — 
"Lay bare thine arm ! Stretch forth thy rod! 

Amen ! " That's Stonewall's way ! 

He's in the saddle now — Fall in ! 

Steady, the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the Ford, cut off ! We'll win 

His way out, ball or blade ! 
N'o matter if our shoes be worn, 
No matter if our feet be torn, — 
Quickstep! "We'll with him before morn, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way ! 



The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
Of morning, and, by George ! — 

There's Longstreet struggling in the lists, 
Henuned by an ugly gorge ; 

"Pope and his Yankees whipped before ! 

Bayonets and grape!"' hear Stonewall roar; 

"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, 
In Stonewall Jackson's way!" 

Ah, woman ! wait, and watch, and yearn 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah, widow! read with eyes that burn 

That ring upon thy hand ! 
Ah, maiden! weej) on, hope on, pray on! 
Thy lot is not so all forlorn — 
The foe had better ne'er been born 

That gets in Stonewall's way ! 

J. W. Palmer. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 



IP from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall. 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down. 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars. 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down. 

In her attic-window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the sti-eet came the rebel-tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sijjht. 



"Halt! '' — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
" Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But sijare your country's flag! " she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler natui'e within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on ! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the ti'ead of marching feet; 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 



424 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, ou Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietcbie's grave. 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 



Peace and order and beauty di'aw 
Round thy sj^mbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town. 

John Gkeenleaf Whittier. 



JOIIX BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 



|AVE you heard the story the gossips tell 
* Of John Burns of Gettj'sburg?— Xo? Ah, well, 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
Briefer the story of poor John Burns; 
He was the fellow who won renown — 

The only man who didn't back down 

When the rebels rode through his native town; 

But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July, sixty-three, — 

The very day that General Lee, 

The flower of Southern chivahy. 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 

From a stubborn Meade and a bari'en field. 

I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage-door. 
Looking down the village street, 
Wliere, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine. 
And felt their breath with incense sweet; 
Or. I might say, when the sunset biu-ned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell in a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail, red as blood ; 
Or, how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 

Who minded only his own concerns. 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine. 

Quite old-fashioned, and matter-of-fact. 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folks say. 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Raged for hours the heavj- fight. 
Thundered the battery's double bass 
Difficult music for men to face; 
^^^lile on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all the day unceasing swept 
Uj) to the pits the rebels kept — 
Round-shot plowed the upland glades. 
So\\Ti with bullets, reaped with blades; 



Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed then- splinters in the air; 

The verj^ trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow gi-ain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain; 

TTie cattle bellowed on the plain. 

The turke3'S screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns. 
Erect and lonelj-, stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed? 

He wore an ancient, long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron — but his best; 

And, buttoned over his manlj- breast 

Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons — size of a dollar — 

With tails that country-folk called •• swaller." 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat. 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the \illage-green. 

Since John Burns was a country Ijeau, 

And went to the •■ quilting " long ago. 

Close at his elbows, all that day 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away. 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in — 

Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore. 

Then at the rifle his right hand boi-e; 

And hailed him from out their youthful lore. 

With scraps of a slangy reportoire : 

" How are you. White Hat? " "Put her through?" 

" Your head's level! "' and. •• Bully for you! " 

Called him •• Daddy " — and begged he'd disclose 

The namfe of the tailor who made his clothes. 

And what was the value he set on those; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff. 

Stood there picking the rebels off — 

With his long l^rown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails thej' were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked; 



CAJNIP AND BATTLE. 



425 



And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whisj)ers, and some men saw. 
In the antique vestments and long white hair 
The Past of the Nation in battle there. 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 



Thus raged the battle. You know the rest; 
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 
Broke at the tinal charge and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his ritle, unbent his brows. 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

This is the story of old .John Burns ; 

This is the moral the reader learns : 

In fighting the battle, the question's whether 

You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather. 

Bret Harte. 



THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 



P|IGrHTY and nine with their captain, ■ 
'^ Rode on the enemj^'s track. 

Rode in the gray of the morning — 
Nine of the ninety came back. 

Slow rose the mist from the river, 

■ Lighter each moment the way ; 

Careless and tearless and fearless 

Galloped they on to the fray. 

Singing in tune, how the scabbards, 
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang. 

Clinked as the men rose in saddle. 
Fell as they sank with a clang. 

What is it moves by the river, 
Jaded and weary and weak? 

Gray-backs — a cross on their banner — 
Yonder the foe whom they seek. 

Silence ! They see not, they hear not, 
Tarrying there by the marge : 

Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop! 
Chai'ge ! like a hurricane, charge. 

Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal — 
Fu-e like the deep pit of hell ! 



Volley on volley to meet them. 
Mixed with the gray rebel's yell. 

Ninety had ridden to battle. 

Tracing the enemy's track — 
Ninety had ridden to battle ; 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Honor the name of the ninety; 

Honor the heroes who came 
Scatheless from Ave hundred muskets, 

Safe from the lead-bearing flame. 

Eighty and one of the troopers 

Lie on the field on the slain — 
Lie on the red field of honor — 

Honor the nine who remain ! 

Cold are the dead there, and goiy. 
There where their life-blood was spilt; 

Back come the living, each sabre 
Red from the point to the hilt. 

Up with three cheers and a tiger ! 

Let the flags wave as they come ! 
Give them the blare of the trumpet! 

Give them the roll of the drum ! 

Thomas Dunn English. 



THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 



:^1TH bray of the trumpet 

And roll of the drum. 
And keen ring of bugle. 

The cavalry come. 
Sharp clank the steel scabbards, 

The bridle-chains ring. 
And foam from red nostrils 

The wild chargers fling. 



Tramp ! tramp ! o'er the greensward 

That quivers below. 
Scarce held by the curb-bit 

The fierce horses go ! 
And the grim-visaged colonel, 

With ear-rending shout. 
Peals forth to the squadrons 

The order,— '■ Trot out! " 



426 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



One hand on the sabre, 

And one on the rein. 
The troopers move forward 

In line on the plain. 
As rings the word, '• Gallop! " 

The steel scabbards clank, 
Aund each rowel is pressed 

To a horse's hot Hank: 
And swift is their rush 

As the wild torrenfs flow, 
When it i^onrs from the crag 

On the valley below. 

"Charge! *' thunders the leader: 

Like shaft from the bow 
Each mad horse is hurled 

On the wavering foe. 
A thousand bright sabres 

Are gleaming in air; 
A thousand dark horses 

Are dashed on the square. 

Resistless and reckless 

Of aught may betide, 
I^ik,- demons, hot mortals, 

The wild troopers i-ide. 
Cut right! and cut left! — 

For the parry who needs? 
The bayonets shiver 

Like wind-scattered reeds. 



Vain — vain the red volley 

That bursts from the square, — 
The random-shot bullets 

Are wasted in air. 
Triumphant, remorseless, 

LTnerring as death, — 
No sabre that 's stainless 

Returns to its sheath. 

The wounds that are dealt 

Bj' that murderous steel 
Will never jdeld case 

For the surgeon to heal. 
Hurrah! they are broken — 

Hurrah! boys, they fly — 
None linger save those 

Who but linger to die. 

Rein uj) your hot horses 

And call in your men, — 
The trumpet sounds " Rally 

To coloi-s" again. 
Some saddles are empty. 

Some conirades are slain. 
And some noble horses 

Lie stark on the plain; 
But war "s a chance game, boys. 

And weeiJing is vain. 

Francis A. Durivage. 



3.-af-^{S_ 



CAVALRY SONG. 



SUR good steeds snuff the evening air, 
i Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
The foeman's fires are twinkling there; 
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 

Halt! 
Each carbine sends its whizzing ball; 
Now, cling! clang! forward all, 
Into the fight ! 

Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 
Through level lightnings gallop nearer! 

One look to Heaven! Xo thoughts of home: 
The guidons that we bear are dearer. 



Charge ! 
Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall : 
Cut left and right! 

They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall! they spread in broken surges. 
Now, comrades, hoar our wounded back, 
And leave the foeman to his dirges. 

Wheel ! 
The bugles sound the swift recall : 
Cling ! clang ! backward all ! 

Home, and good niarht! 
Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



r>i?7-r. 



THE CUMBEIILAN"D. 



JI^^T anchor in Hampton Roads we lay. 

On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a l)ugle-blast 
From the camj) on the shore. 



Then, far away to the South, ujM-ose 

A little featlier of snow-white smoke; 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steei'ing its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 



CAMl' iVND BATTLE. 



427 



Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the lloatiug fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns 
And leaps the terrible death. 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ; 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

" Strike your flag! " the Rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old i^lantation strain. 
" Never I " our gallant Morris replies; 
•■ It is better to sink than to yield!" 
And the whole air i)ealed 
With the cheers of our men. 



Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still fioated our flag at the main-mast head ; 
Lord, how beautiful was thy day! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these. 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE BAY-FIGHT. 



[Mobile, Aug-ust 5, 1S64.] 



aBI0|HREE days through sapphire seas we sailed. 
^^ The steady Trade blew strong and free, 
'Ml The Northern Light his banners paled, 
W* The Ocean Stream our channels wet. 

We rounded low Canaveral's lee. 
And passed the isles of emerald set 

In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. 

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, 
And hauntings of the grey sea-wolf, 

The palmy Western Key lay lapped 
In the warm washing of the Gulf. 

But weary to the hearts of all 
The burning glare, the barren reach 

Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, 
And Pensacola's ruined wall. 



And weary was the long patrol, 

'^riie thousand miles of shapeless sti'aud. 
From Brazos to San Bias that roll 

Their drifting dunes of desert sand. 

Yet, coast-wise fis we cruised or lay. 

Tlie land-breeze still at nightfall ))ore, 
By beach and fortress-guarded bay. 

Sweet odors from the enemy's shore. 

Fresh from the forest's solitudes, 
I^nchallenged of his sentry lines — 

The bursting of his cypress buds. 
And the warm fragrance of his ])ines. 
•27 



Ah, never braver bark and crew, 

Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare. 
Had left a wake on ocean blue 

Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer! 

But little gain by that dark ground 
Was ours, save, sometime, fi-eer breath 

For friend or brother strangely found. 
'Scaped from the drear domain of death. 

And little venture for the bold, 
Or laui-el for our valiant Chief, 
Save some blockaded British thief, 

Full fraught with murder in his liold, 

Caught unawares at ebb or flood — 
Or dull bombardment, day bj^ djiy. 
With fort and earth- \\ork, far away. 

Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. 

A weary time, — but to the strong 
The day at last, as ever, came ; 

And the volcano, laid so long. 
Leaped forth in thunder and in flame! 

"■ Man your starboard battery! " 
Kimberly shouted — 
The ship, with her hearts of oak. 
Was going, mid roar and smoke. 
On to \ictory ! 
None of us doubted — 
No. not our dying — 
Farragut's flag was flving! 



428 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



Gaines growled low on our left. 

Morgan roared on our right — 
Before us. gloomy and fell. 
With bi'eath like the fume of hell, 
Lay the Dragon of iron shell, 

Driven at last to the tight ! 

Ha, old ship ! do they thrill, 
The brave two hundred scars 
You got in the River- Wars? 

They were leeched \\ith clamorous skill, 
(Surgery savage and hard,) 

Splinted with bolt and beam. 

Probed in scarfing and seam. 
Rudely linted and tarred 

With oakum and boiling i)itt-h. 

And sutured with splice and hitch. 
At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard! 

Our loft}' spars were down. 
To bide the battle's frown 
(Wont of old renown) — 
But every ship was drest 
In her bravest and her best, 

As if for a July day ; 
Sixty flags and three, 

As we floated up the bay — 
Every peak and mast-head flew 
The brave Red , 'NATiite and Blue — 

We were eighteen ships that day. 

With hawsers strong and taut. 
The weaker lashed to port. 

On we sailed, two by two — 
That if either a bolt should feel 
Crash through caldron or wheel. 
Fin of bronze or sinew of steel. 

Her mate might bear her through. 

Steadily nearing the head, 
The great Flag-Ship led. 

Grandest of sights! 
On her lofty niizzcn flew 
Our Leader's dauntless Blue, 

That had waved o'er twenty fights — 
So we went, with the first of the tide. 

Slowly, mid the roar 

Of the Rebel guns ashore 
And the thunder of each full broadside. 

Ah. how poor the prate 
Of statute and state. 

We once held with these fellows — 
Here, on the flood's pale green. 

Hark how he bello^^■s, 

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! 
Talk to them. Dahlgi'en, 

Parrott. and Sawver! 



On. in the whirling shade 

Of the cannon's sulphury breath, 
AVe drew to the Line of Death 

That our devilish Foe had laid — 

Meshed in a horrible net. 
And baited villainous well. 

Right in our path were set 
Three hundred traps of hell! 

And there, O sight forlorn ! 
There, while the caimon 

Hurtled and thundered — 
(Ah. what ill raven 
Flapped o'er the ship that morn!) — 
Caught bj' the uuder-death. 
In the drawing of a breath, 
Down went dauntless Craven, 
He and his hundred ! 

A moment we saw her turret, 

A little heel she gave, 
And a thin white spray went o'er her. 

Like the crest of a breaking wave — 
In that gi-eat iron coffin. 

The channel for their grave, 

The fort their monument, 
(Seen afar in the offing,) 
Ten fathom deep lie Craven, 

And the bravest of our brave. 

Then, in that deadly trai'k, 
A little the ships held back. 

Closing up in their stations — 
There are minutes that fix the fate 

Of battles and of nations 

(Christening the generations,) 
"WTien valor were all too late. 

If a moment's doubt be harbored ; 
From the main-top, bold and brief. 
Came the word of our grand old Chief — 
"Go on! " — 't was all he said — 

Our helm was put to the starboard. 
And the Hartford passed ahead. 

Ahead lay the Tennessee. 

On our starboard bow he lay. 
With his mail-clad consorts three, 

(The rest had run up the Bay) — 
There he was, belchmg flame from his bow. 
Aiid the steam from his throat's abyss 
AVas a Dragon's maddened hiss — 

In sooth a most cursed craft! — 
In a sullen ring at bay 
By the :Middle Ground they lay. 

Raking us fore and aft. 

Trust me. our berth was hot. 
Ah. wickedly well they shot; 
How their death-bolts howled and stung! 



CaOIP AND BATTLE. 



42!) 



And the water-batteries played 

With their deadlj' uuunoimde 
Till the air aroimd us rung ; 
So the battle raged and roared — 
Ah, had you been aboard 

To have seen the fight we made ! 

How they leaped, the tongues of rtame, 

From the cannon's fierj' lip ! 
How the broadsides, deck and frame. 

Shook the great ship ! 

And how the enemy's shell 
Came crashing, heavy and oft. 
Clouds of splinters Hying aloft 

And falling in oaken showers — 
But ah, the pluck of the crew! 

Had you stood on that deck of ours, 
You had seen what men may do. 

Still, as the fray grew louder, 

Boldly they worked and well; 
Steadily came the powder, 

Steadily came the shell ; 
And if tackle or truck found hurt. 
' Quickly they cleared the wreck; 
And the dead were laid to port. 

All a-row, on our deck. 

Never a nerve that failed. 

Never a cheek that paled. 
Not a tinge of gloom or pallor — 

There was bold Kentucky's grit. 
And the old Virginian valor. 

And the daring Yankee wit ; 

There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon. 

There were black orbs from palmy Niger- 
But there, alongside the cannon. 

Each man fought like a tiger! 

A little, once,' it looked ill. 

Our consort began to burn — 
Thej' quenched the flames with a will. 
But our men were falling still. 

And still the fleet was astern. 

Eight abreast of the Fort 

In an awful shroud they lay. 

Broadsides thundering away. 
And lightning from eveiy port — 

Scene of glory and dread ! 

A storm-cloud all aglow 

With flashes of fiery red — 
The thunder raging below. 

And the forest of flass o'erhead ! 



So grand the hurly and roar. 
So fiercely their broadsides blazed, 

The regiments fighting ashore 
Forgot to fire as they gazed. 

There, to silence the Foe, 

Moving grimly and slow. 
They loomed in that deadly wreath. 

Where the darkest batteries frowned- 

Death in the air all round. 
And the black torpedoes beneath ! 

And now, as we looked ahead. 
All for'ard, the long white deck 

Was growing a strange dull red ; 
But soon, as once and agen 

Fore and aft we sped 

(The firing to guide or check,) 

You could hardly choose but tread 
On the ghastly human wreck, 

(Dreadful gobbet and shred 

That a minute ago were men!) 

Red, from mainmast to bitts ! 

Red, on bulwark and wale — 
Red, by combing and hatch — 

Red, o'er netting and rail! 

And ever, with steady con, 
The ship forged slowly by — 

And ever the crew fought on. 
And theii' cheers rang loud and high. 

Grand was the sight to see 

How by their guns they stood, 
Right in front of our dead 
Fighting square abreast — 
Each brawny arm and chest 
All spotted with black and red. 
Chrism of fire and blood ! 

Worth our watch, dull and sterile. 
Worth all the weary time — 

Worth the woe and the peril. 
To stand in that strait sublime ! 

Fear? A forgotten form ! 

Death? A dream of the eyes! 
We were atoms in God's great storm 

That roared through the angry skies. 

One only doubt was ours. 

One only dread we knew — 
Could the day that dawned so well 
Go down for the Darker Powers? 

Wuzild the fleet get through? 

And ever the shot and shell 
Came with the howl of hell. 
The splinter-clouds rose and fell. 

And the long line of corpses grew — 

Would the fleet win through? 



430 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



They are men that never will fail 

(How aforetime they "ve fought ! ) 
But Murder may yet prevail — 

They may siuk as Craveu sank. 
There\\ith one hard, fierce thought, 
Burning (m heart and lip. 
Ran like fire through the ship — 
Fight her, to the last plank! 

A dimmer Eenown might sti'ike 
If Death lay square alongside — 

But the Old Flag has no like, 
She must fight, whatever betide — 

When the war is a tale of old. 

And this day's story is told, 
They shall hear how the Hartfoi'd died! 

But as we ranged ahead. 
And the leading ships Avorked in. 
Losing their hope to win, 

The enemy turned and fled^ 

And one seeks a shallow reach. 
And another, winged in her flight. 
Our mate, brave Jouett. brings in — 
And one, all torn in the fight. 

Runs for a wreck on the beach, 
"WTiere her fiames soon fire the night. 

And the Ram, when well up the Baj% 

And we looked that our stems should meet, 
(He had us fair for a prey,) 
Shifting his helm midway. 

Sheered off and ran for the fleet; 
There, without skulking or sham, 

lie fought them, gun for gun, 
And ever he sought to ram. 

But could finish never a one. 

From the first of the iron shower 

Till we sent our parting shell, 
'Twas just one savage hour 

Of the roar and the rage of hell. 
With the lessening smoke and thunder. 

Our glasses around we aim — 
AVhat is that burning j^onder? 

Our Philippi, — aground and in flame ! 

Below, 'twas still all a-roar. 
As the ships went by the shore. 

But the fire of the fort had slacked, 
(So fierce their volleys had been) — 
And now. with a mightA' din. 
The whole fleet came grandly in. 

Though sorely battered and wracked. 

So. up the Bay we ran. 

The Flag to port and ahead, 
And a pitying rain began 

To wash the lijis of oui- dead. 



A league from the Fort we lay. 
And deemed that the end must lag; 

When lo! looking down the Bay, 
There flaunted the Rebel Rag — 

The Ram is again under waj% 
And heading dead for the Flag ! 

Steering up with the sti'eam, ■ 
Boldly his com'se he lay. 
Though the fleet all answered his fire. 
And, as he still drew nigher. 
Ever on bow and beam 

Our Monitors pounded away — 
How the Chickasaw hammered away! 

Quickly breasting the wave. 

Eager the prize to win. 
First of us all the brave 

Monougahela went in .; 

Lender full head of steam — 
Twice she struck him abeam, 
Till her stem was a sorry work, 

(She might have run on a crag!) 
The Lackawanna hit fair. 
He flung her aside like cork, 

And still he held for the Flag. 

High in the mizzen shroud 

(Lest the smoke his sight o"erwhelm). 
Our AdmiraFs voice rang loud, 

•• Hard-a-starboard your helm I 
Starboard! and run him down I " 

Starboard it was — and so. 
Like a black squall's lifting frown. 
Our mighty bow bore down 

On the iron beak of the Foe. 

We stood on the deck together, 
jSIen that had looked on death 

In battle and stormy -w eather — 
Yet a little we held our breath. 
When, with the hush of death. 

The great ships drew together. 

Our Captain sti'ode to the bow, 

Drayton, courtly and wise. 

Kindly cvnic, and wise, 
(You hardl}^ had known him now, — 

The flame of fight in his ej'esi) 
His brave heart eager to feel 
How the oak would tell on the steel! 

But, as the space grew short, 
A little he seemed to shun us; 
Out peered a form grim and lanky. 

And a voice yelled: "Hard-a-])ortI 
Hard-a-portl — here's the danuied Yankee 
Coniintr risrht down on us! "' 



CA_MP AND BATTLE. 



431 



He sheered, but the ships ran foul; 
With a giiarriug shudder and growl — 

He gave us a deadly gun ; 
But as he passed in his pride, 
(Rasping right alongside!) 

The Old Flag, in thunder tones, 
Poured in her port broadside, 
Rattling his iron hide. 

And cracking his timber bones! 

Just then, at speed on the Foe, 

With her bow all weathered and brown, 

The great Lackawanna came down. 
Full tilt, for another blow ; 
We were forging ahead, 

She reversed — but, for all our pains, 
Rammed the old Hartford instead. 

Just forward the mizzen-chains! 

Ah I how the masts did buckle and bend, 

And the stout hidl ritig and reel. 
As she took us right on end ! 

f\^ain were engine and wheel. 

She was under full steam) — 
"With the roar of a thunder-stroke 
Her Uvo thousand tons of oak 

Brought up on us, right abeam ! 

A wreck, as it looked, we lay — 
(Rib and plankshear gave way 

To the stroke of that giant wedge!) 
Here, after all, we go — 
The old ship is gone! — ah, no. 

But cut to the water's edge. 

Never mind then — at him again! 

His flurry now can't last long ; 
He "11 never again see land — 
Try that on him, Marchand ! 

On him again, brave Strong! 



Heading square at the hulk. 

Full on his beam we bore ; 
But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog 
Lay on the tide like a log. 

He vomited flame no more. 

By this he had found it hot — 
Half the fleet, in an ana'rv rinof. 
Closed round the hideous Thing, 

Hammering with solid shot, 

And bearing down, bow on bow — 
He has but a minute to choose; 

Life or renown? — which now 
Will the Rebel Admiral lose? 

Cruel, hallght}^ and cold. 

He ever was strong and bold — 

Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? 
He will think of that brave baud 
He sank in the Cumberland — 

Ay, he will sink like them. 

Nothing left but to fight 
Boldly his last sea-fight ! 

Can he strike? By heaven, 't is true! 

Down comes the traitor Blue, 
And up goes the captive White ! 

Up went the "White ! Ah then 
The hurrahs that, once and agen. 
Rang from three thousand men 

All flushed and savage with flght! 
Our dead lay cold and stark. 
But our dying, down in the dark. 

Answered as best they might — 
Lifting their poor lost arms. 

And cheering for God and Right I 

Henry Howaku Brownell. 



-«-*.=-^-^.o.. — 



^ffe 



ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOES. 



no are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly ^ tiif:le c/iild, they cmiffht me as the savage 
t(r.=;s^i human, beast Is caufffit, 

feffi^ With your woolly- white and turbaned head. Then hi.the7"me across tfie sea t?i,e cruel slaver 



and bare bony feet? 
Why, rising by the roadside here, do j^ou the colors 
ffreet? 



('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines. 
Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com'st 

to me. 
As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) 



brought. 

No further does she say, but lingering all the day. 
Her high-borne turbaned head she wags, and rolls 

her darkling eye. 
And coiu'tesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. 



What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardlj' human? 
AVhy wag your head with tnrban bound, yellow, red 
and green? 
Jife, master, years a huttdred, since, from my Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or 
parents sifitdered, have seen? 

Walt Whitman. 



432 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE C. S. ARMY'S COMMISSARY, 



1—1863. 




ELL. this is bad! " we sighing said, 
ii While nuisiiig round the bivouac tire, 
And dwelling with a fond desire. 
On home and comforts long since fled. 



" Our tents — they went a year ago; 
Xow kettle, sijider, fiyiug-pan 
Ai'e lost to us, and as we can 

We live, while marchiug to and fro. 



•' How gaily came we forth at first! 
Our spirits high, with new emprise, 
Ambitious of each exercise, 

And glowing with a martial thirst. 



"Our food has lessened, till at length 
E'en ^^•ant■s gaunt image seems to threat- 
A foe to whom the bravest yet 

Must yield at last his knightly strength. 




' But while we 've meat and flour enough 
The bayonet shall be our spit." 



"Equipped as for a holiday. 
With bounteous store of everything 
To use or comfort minisfring, 

All cheerily we marched away. 



"But while we "ve meat and flour enough 
The bayonet shall be our spit — 
The rami-od bake our dough on it — 

A gum-cloth be our kneading trough. 



"But as the struggle fiercer grew. 
Light marching orders came apace, — 
And baggage- wagon soon gave place 

To that which sterner uses knew. 



"We "11 bear privation, danger dare, 
■\Miile even these are left to us — 
Be hopeful, faithful, emulous 

Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare '. 



CAMP AND BATTLE. 



433 



11—1864. 



"Three years and more," we grimly said, 
When order came to "Eest at will " 
Beside the corn-tield on the hill, 

As on a weary march we sped — 



" 111 fed, ill clad, and shelte-rless. 
How little cheer in health we know ! 
When wounds and illness lay us low, 

How comfortless our sore distress! 



"Three years and more we 've met the foe 
On many a gorj', hard-fought field, 
And still we swear we cannot yield 

Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe. 



" These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide 
Our forms, can naught diseoura'ge us; 
But Hunger— ah! it may be thus 

That Fortune shall the strife decide. 




'But while the corn-fields give supply 
We 'U take, content, the roasting-ear.' 



" Three years and more we 've struggled on, 
Through torrid heat and winter's chill, 
Nor bated aught of steadfast will. 

Though even hope seems almost gone. 



"But while the corn-fields give supply 
We '11 take, content, the roasting-ear, 
Nor yield us yet to ci-aven fear , 

But still press on, to do or die! " 

Ed. Porter Thompson. 



^mHE fieiy courser, when he hears from far 
^^ The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war. 
Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight. 
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight; 
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined. 



Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind : 
Eager he stands. — then, starting with a bound, 
He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground ,• 
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nosti'ils flow; 
He bears his rider headlong on the foe. 



434 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY, 



SONG OF THE SOLDIERS. 



isOMRADES known in marches man}-, 
* Comrades ti'ied in dangers man}-, 
Comrades bound by memories many, 

Brothers ever let iis be. 
Wounds or sickness may divide us 
Marcliing orders may divide us, 
But whatever fate betide us. 
Brothers of the heart are we. 



Comrades known by faith the clearest, 
Tried when death wa« near and nearest, 
Bound we are bv ties the dearest. 

Brotners evermui-e to oe. 
And if spared and growing older. 
Shoulder still in line with shoulder. 
And with hearts no thrill the colder, 

Brothers ever we shall be. 




*' But \vhntever fnte betide lis, 
Brothers of the heart are we." 



By communion of the banner. — 
Crimson, white, and starry banner, — 
By the baptism of the banner. 
Children of one Church are we. 



Creed nor faction can divide us, 
Race nor language can divide us. 
Still, whatever fate betide us. 
Children of the flag are we ! 



Charles G. Halpine. 

(:Miles O'Reilly.) 



-^sS-Ss 



^IpARKl heard you not those hoofs of dreadful 

^W^Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
J'i Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote. 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tvrants and tyrants" slaves? — The flres of death. 



The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to 

rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 

shock. 



CAMP AXD BATTLE. 



435 




A DEEAM OF WAE. 

HE past rises before me like :i dream. Again we are in the great struggle 
for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation — the music of 
boisterous drums — the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thou- 
sands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we seethe pale 
cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those 
assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with 
flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when 
they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part Avith those 
they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, 
with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet 
vows"' of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are 
bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are 
receivino- the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them 
and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. And some are 
talkino- with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to 
drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing 
in the door with the babe in her arms — standing in the sunlight sobbing — at the 
turn of the road a hand waves — she answers by holding high in her loving arms the 
child. He is gone, and forever. 

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping 
time to the grand, wild music of war — marching down the streets of the great 
cities — through the towns and across the prairies — down to the fields of glory, to do 
and to die for the eternal right. 

We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields — 
in all the hospitals of pain — on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them 
in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running 
with blood — in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contendingr 
hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered 
leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, 
and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We 
are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine ; but human speech can never tell 
what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We 
see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the 
old man bowed with the last grief. 

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty — they died for us. They are at 
rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, 
under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. 
They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each 
in the windowless palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars — they are at 
})eace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. 
I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for 
the dead. 

Tngeesoll. 



43() 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



MUSIC IN CAMP. 



^WO armies covered hill and i)lain, 
Where Eappahauuoek's waters 
Rau deepl}' crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its high emhrasiu-e. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

Xo forest leaf to qitiver ; 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And no\^' where cu-cling hills looked down 

"With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just sti-uck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One wooded shore was blue with '-Yanks," 

And one was grey with •• Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the band. 
With movement light and tricksy. 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow. 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 

AV'ith yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause ; and then again 
The trumpet pealed sonorous. 



And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormj' riot ; 
Xo shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holj- quiet. 

The sad. slow stream, its noiseless flood 
Poured o"er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

Xo unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing. 
So deeply -'Home, Sweet Home" had stin-ed 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Grey, the soldier sees. 

As bj' the wand of fairy. 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

The cold or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen "through the tear-mist in his ej'es. 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain. 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the sti'aiu 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked bj- Music's art, 

Expressed in simple numbers. 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart. 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines — 

That bright celestial creature — 
AVTio still 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gives this one touch of Xatin-e. 

John R. Thompson. 



Part VII. 




^^txxpixon un^ Mutvttiic^n* 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 




" Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night.' 



"ATLANTIC. 



Bp|Y, build her long and narrow and deep! 
f^ She shall cut the .sea with a scimetar's sweep, 
Whatever betides and whoever may weep ! 



X Bring out the red wine ! Lift the glass to the 
I lip ! 

\ With a roar of great guns, and a "Hip! hip! 
Hurrah ! " for the craft, we will christen the ship ! 



Da.sh a draught on the bow! Ah, the spar of white 

wood 
Drips into the sea till it colors the flood 
With the very own double and symbol of blood\ 

Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic 
That shall queen it so grandly when surges are frantic! 
Child of fire and of iron, God save the " Atlantic! " 

:fc 4c :(c 9t( * 3(! * 

439 



440 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



All aboard, my fiue fellows! "Up aucborl "" the 

word — 
Ah, never again shall that order be heard, 
For two worlds will be mourning ye gone to a third! 

To the trumpet of March ^\ild gallops the sea ; 
The white-crested troopers are xmder the lee — 
Old AVorld and Xew World and Soul-World are three. 

Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night; 
Sweet Heaven disastered is lost to the sight ; 
"Atlantic,"' crash on in the pride of thy might! 
With thjr loolv-oufs dim cry " One o'clock, and all 
right! " 

Ho, down with the hatches! The seas come aboard! 
All together they come, like a passionate word, 
Like pirates that put everj- soul to the sword ! 

Their black flag all abroad makes mnrky the air. 
But the ship parts the night as a maiden hei' hair — 
Thj'ougli and through the thick gloom, from land here 

to land there. 
Like the shuttle that weaves for a mourner to wear! 



Good night, proud -Atlantic!" One tick of the 

ck)ck. 
And a staggering craunch and a shivering shock — 
'Tis the flint and the steel! "Tis the ship and the 

rock ! 

Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms of 

girls, 
From the stout heart of manhood, in scintillaut whirls, 
Like the stars of the Flag when the banner imfm-ls! 

'\AT2at hundreds went up unto God in their sleep! 
"What hundreds in agony baffled the deep — 
Xobodj- to pray and nobody to weep ! 

Alas for the flag of the single '• "\Miite Star." 
With light pale and cold as the woman's hands a,re 
AMio, froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels afar, 
Lost her hold on the world, and then chitched at a 
spar ! 

God of mercy and grace ! How the bubbles come up 
With souls from the revel, who staj-ed not to sup; 
Death di-ank the last toast, and then shattered the 
cup ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



THE AXCIEXT MAKINEE. 



I.— THE ALBATROSS. 



(|T is an ancient mariner. 

And he stoppeth one of three: 
"By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 
Xow wherefore stopp'st thou mey 

"The bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 

And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set — 

Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand : 

"There was a ship," quoth he. 
"Hold off! unhand me. graj'beard loon!" 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 

The wedding-guest stood still. 
And listens like a three-years child: 

ITie mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone: 

He can not choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed mariner: 

"The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared; 
Merrily did we drop 



Below the kirk, below the hill. 
Below the liglithouse top. 

"The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he! 
And he shone bi-ight, and on the right 

Went down into the sea. 

"Higher and higher every day. 
Till over the mast at noon — " 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast. 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall — 

Bed as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrels^'. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast. 

Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And tlms spoke on that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed mariner : 

"And now the storm-blast came, and he 

Was tj^rannous and strong : 
He stinick us with o'ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 



DESCEIPTION AND XAKRATIOX. 



441 



With sloping masts aud dipping prow. 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

.Vnd forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

Aud southward aye we lied. 



"Aud I had done a hellish thing, 
And it would work them woe; 

For all averred 1 had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

'Ah wretch," said they, 'the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow !' 



"And now there came both mist aud snow, 

Aud it grew wondrous cold ; 
Aud ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 

"And through the drifts the snowy clifts 

Did send a dismal sheeu : 
Nor shapes of men uor beasts we keu — 

The ice was all between. 

"The ice was here, the ice w-as there, 

The ice was all around : 
[t cracked and growled, aud roared aud howled, 

Like noises in a swound 

"At length did cross an albatross; 

Thorough the fog it came : 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 

We hailed it in God's name. 

"It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 

Aud round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thuuder-fit ; 

The helmsman steered us through. 

"And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The albatross did follow, 
Aud every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

"In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 

It perclied for vespers nine; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glinuuered the white moonshiue."' 

"God save thee, ancient mariner. 
From the fiends that plague thee thus! 

■\Vliy look'st thou so?" — "With my cross-bow 
I shot the albatross." 

II.— THE CAI.M AT SEA. 

"The sun now I'ose upon the right; 

Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid iu mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

"And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bii'd did follow, 
Nor any day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 



"Nor dim nor red, like God's own head 

The glorious sun uprist; 
Theu all averred I liad killed the bird 

That brought the fog aud mist. 
' 'Twas right,' said thej', 'such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist." 

"The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free : 
We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

"Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down- 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 

"All iu a hot aud copjjer sky. 

The bloody sun, at noon, 
Eight up above the mast did stand, 



"Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

"Water, water everyw'here, 

And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

"The very deep did rot. O Christ! 

That ever this .should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Upon the slimy sea. 

"About, about, in reel and I'out, 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

"Aud some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the laud of mist and snow. 

" And every tongue, through utter drought, 

Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 



442 



THE GOLDEN TREASUJKY. 



" Ah, well-a-day ! What evil looks 

Had I from old aud young ! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 

About my iieck was huug." 

III.-THE PROSPEROUS GALE AXD THE RETURN. 

'• O sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 

Beloved from pole to pole I 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 



" I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 

I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 

And was a blessed ghost. 

'• And soon I heard a roaring wind; 

It did not come anear. 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 

That were so thin and sear. 

"•The upjjer air burst into life I 
And a hundred flre-tlags sheen; 





" As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean." 



" The silly buckets on the deck 

That had so long remained. 
I dreamt that they were tilled with dew^; 

And when I woke it rained. 

" My lips were wet. my throat was cold, 

My garments all were dank: 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 

And still mv bodv drank. 



To and fro they were humed about. 
And to and fro, aud in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

" And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge. 

And the rain poured down from one black 
cloud — 
The moon was at its edge. 



DESCEIPTION AjSTD NAREATION. 



443 



"• The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning- fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

'•The helmsman steered, the shij) moved on. 

Yet never a breeze upblew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do. 

" Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning! 

" And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute. 
And now it is an angel's song. 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

"It ceased; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

"Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 

Moved onward from beneath. 

" Swiftl.v, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too; 
Sweetlj'. sweetly blew the breeze 

On me alone it blew. 

" Oh, dream of joy! is this, indeed. 

The lighthouse top I see? 
Is this the hill? Is this the kirk? 

Is this mine own countree? 

"We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray, 
'Oh, let me be awake, mj- God! 

Or let me sleep alw^ay.' " 

IV.— THE SHRIFT OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

"And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat. 

And scarcely he could stand. 

" ' O shrive me, shrive me, holy man ! ' 

The hermit crossed his brow. 
' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say. 

What manner of man art thou?' 



"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 
Wliich forced me to begin my tale, 

And then it left me free. 

" Since then, at an luicertaiu hour, 

That agony returns ; 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 

This heart within me burns. 

" I pass, like night, from land to land; 

I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face 1 see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 

To him my tale I teach. 

"'iMiat loud uproar bursts from that door! 

The wedding guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bridesmaids singing are; 
And hark ! the little vesper-bell 

Which biddeth me to prayer. 

' O wedding-guest! this soul hath been 

Alone on a wide, wide sea; 
So lonely 't was, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 

"Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 

With a goodly company — 

"To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray. 
While each to his great Father bends. 
Old men, and babes, and loviag friends. 

And youths and maidens gay! 

"Farewell! farewell! But this I tell 

To thee, thou wedding-guest: 
He prayeth well, who loveth A\ell 

Both man and bird and beast. 

"He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 

He made and loveth all." 

The mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone ; and now'the wedding-guest 

Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned. 

And is of sense forlorn ; 
A sadder and a wiser man 

He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



444 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 




A EILL FEOM THE TOWI^ EUME. 



OON by the north clock ! noon by the east ! High noon, too, by these 
hot sunbeams which fall, scarcely aslope, ujion my head, and almost 
make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. 
Trulj", we public characters have a rough time of it ! And among 
all the public characters chosen at the March meeting, where is he 
that sustains, for a single year, the burden of such manifold duties 
as are imposed in perpetuity upon the Town Pump? The title of 
"town treasurer" is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure 
that the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make me 
their chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without 
expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire de- 
partment, and one of the physicians of the board of health. As a 
keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. I 
perform some of the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating public notices when 
they are pasted on my front. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the 
municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother ofiicers, by the 
cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business, and the 
constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain ; 
for all day long I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out 
my arms to rich and poor alike; and at night I hold a lantern over my head, both to 
show where I am and to keep people out of the gutters. 

At this sultry noontide I am cup-bearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit 
an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall, at nuister-day 
I cry aloud to all and sundry in my plainest accents, and at the vei-}' tip-toji of my 
voice: "Here it is, gentlemen ! here is the good liquor ! AValk up — walk up, gentlemen ! 
walk up ! walk up ! Here is the superior stuff ! Here is the unadulterated ale of 
Father A<lam — better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any 
price. Here it is, by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pa}' ! "Walk 
up, gentlemen ! walk up, and help yourselves ! " 

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come ! A 
hot day, gentlemen ! Quaff, and away again, so as to keep ^-ourselves in a nice, cool 
sweat! You, my friend, will need another cupful, to wash the dust out of your throat, 
if it be as thick there as it is on 3'our cowhide shoes. I see you have trudged half 
a score of miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed b}' the taverns and stopped 
at the running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, 
you would have been burned to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all, in the 
fashion of a jelly-fish! Drink, and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid 
to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations — which he drained from no cup of 
mine. 

Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have been great strangers hitherto : nor, 
to express the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy till the fumes of 



DESCRIPTION AND NAERATION. 445 

your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the water absolutely hisses 
down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam. Fill again, and tell me, on 
the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram- 
shop, spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for 
the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by, and 
whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. 

Who next? — Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither 
to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, 
and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the 
current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be 
scorched with a fiercer thirst than now ! There, my dear child ! put down the cup, and 
yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the stones that 
I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What ! he limps by without so nmch 
as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no 
wine-cellars. Well, well, sir! no harm done, I hope? Go, draw the cork, tip the 
decanter ; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of 
mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town 
Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, 
but stands on his hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he 
capers away again ! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout? 

Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends; and, while my 
spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences. 
In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled 
out of the leaf -strewn earth, in the very spot where you behold me on the sunny 
pavement. The water was as bi'ight and clear, and deemed as precious as liquid diamonds. 
The Indian Sagamores drank of it from time immemorial, till the fearful deluo;e of 
fire-water burst upon the red men, and swept the whole race away from the cold 
fountains. Endicott and his followers came next, and often knelt down to drink, 
dipping their long beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch-bark. 

Governor Winthrop drank here out of the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson 
here wet his palm and laid it on the brow of the first town-born child. For many 
years it was the watering-place, and, as it were, the wash-bowl of the vicinity, 
whither all decent folks resorted to pui'ify their visages, and gaze at them afterward — 
at least the pretty maidens did — in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days, 
whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here, and placed it on 
the communion-table of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the site of 
yonder stately brick one. Thus one generation after another was consecrated to 
Heaven by its waters, and cast its waxing and waning shadows into its glassy bosom, 
and vanished from the earth as if mortal life were but a flittino; imaffe in a fountain. 
Finally the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart-loads of 
gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud-puddle at 
the corner of two streets. 

In the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in clouds 
over the forgotten birth-place of the waters, now their grave. But in the course of 
time a Town Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and when the first 

•28 



44 G 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



decayed, another took its place, and then another, and still another, till here stand I, 
gentlemen and ladies, to serve 3"ou, with my iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed I 
The water is pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red Sagamore beneath 
the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot 
stones, where no shadoAV falls but from the brick buildiugfs. And be it the moral of 
my story, that, as the wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, 
so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your fathers' days, be recog- 
nized by all. 

Your pardon, good people ! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout 
forth a stream of water, to replenish the tx'ough for this teamster and his two yoke of 
oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part of my 
business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look ! how rapidly they lower the 
water-mark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with 
a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in with sighs of calm 
enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking- 
vessel. An ox is your true toper. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



THE WI^TD i]sr A FROLIC. 



fm 



|HE Wind one morning sprang up from sleep, 
i Saj'iiig. '-Xow for a frolic! now for a leap I 
Xow for a mad-cap galloping chase! 
'i' I'll make a commotion in everj' place ! " 
So it swept with a bustle right through a great 

town, 
Creaking the signs, and scattering down 
Shutters ; and whisking, with merciless squalls. 
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls : 
There never was heard a much lustier shout. 
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes 
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize. 
Then away to the field it went blustering and hum- 
ming, 
And the cattle all wondered A\hatever was coming ; 
It plucked by the tails the grave mati-only cows. 
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows, 
'Till, offended at such a familiar salute. 
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute. 

So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks, 
^V^listliug with reeds on the broad river's banks. 
Putting the birds as they sat on the spray, 
Or the traveler gi-ave on the king's highway. 

It was not too nice to hustle the bags 
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags : 
"Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke 
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak. 



Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly, •• Now. 
You sturdy old oaks. I'll make j-ou bow! " 
And it made them bow without more ado. 
Or cracked their great branches through and througli. 
Then it rushed, like a monster, on cottage and farm. 
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm. 
So the}' ran out like bees when threatened with harm. 
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their 

caps, 
To see if their poultiy were free from mishaps ; 
The turkeys thej' gobbled, the geese screamed aloud. 
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd ; 
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, 
"Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to Ix' 

gone. 
But the wind had swept on, and met in a lane 
With a school-boy. who panted and struggled in vain : 
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and 

he stood 
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud. 
Then away went the wind in its holidaj' glee ! 
And now it was far on the billowy sea ; 
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow. 
And the little boats darted to and fro : — 
But lo! night came, and it sank to rest 
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west. 
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun. 
How little of mischief it had done! 

WlI.I.IAM HOWITT. 



DESCEIPTIOX AXD NARRATION. 



447 



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448 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



CHEVY CHASE. 

[A " chevaucliee " (corrupted into CHE\"i' Chase) is the French word for a raid over the enemy's border. It represented such 
attacks as were often made by the Scots against England. It is claimed that the old ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" has 
priority over this, which is probably not older than the time of James I. It is the version of which Addison said, "The old song of 
Che\-y Chase is the familiar ballad of the common people of England; and Ben Jonson used to say he had rather been the author of 

it than of all his works."] 



1^1 OD prosper long our uoble king, 
1 Our lives aud safeties all! 
A woeful hunting duce there did 
In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound aud horu 

Earl Piercy took his way : 
The child may rue that was unborn 

The hunting of that day ! 

The stout Earl of Xorthuniberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer daj^s to take. 

The chief est harts in Chevy Chase 

To kill and bear awaj'. 
TTiese tidings to Earl Douglas came. 

In Scotland where he lay. 

Who sent Earl Piercj^ present word 

He would prevent the sport. 
The English earl, not fearing him. 

Did to the woods resort. 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
"Wlio knew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 

To chase the fallow-deer; 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

■VVTien da3'light did appear; 

And long before high noon they had 

A hundred fat bucks slain. 
Then, having dined, the drivers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The l)owmen mustered on the hills. 

AVell able to endure; 
And all their rear with special care 

That day was guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftlj' through the woods 

Tlie nimble deer to take, 
Aud with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Earl Piercj' to the quarry went 

To view the tender deer; 
Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised once 

This day to meet me here ; 

"But if I thought he would not come, 

Xo longer would I stay." 
With that a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the Earl did sav: 



"Lo, j'ouder doth Earl Douglas come, 

His men in armor bright, 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 

" All men of pleasant Tividale, 

Fast by the river Tweed."' 
"Oh, cease your sports," Earl Piercy said, 

"Aud take your bows with speed: 

" And now with me, my countrjinen, 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet. 

In Scotland nor in France, 

''That ever did on horseback come. 

But, if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

AV'ith him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Kode foremost of his company, 

A\1iose armor shone like gold. 

''Show me,"' said he, "whose men j'ou be 

That hunt so boldly here; 
That without mj- consent do chase 

And kill my fallow-deer."' 

The first man that did ans\\'er make 

Was noble Piercy, he, — 
Who said. "We list not to declare 

Nor show whose men we be ; 

"Yet will we spend our dearest blood 

The chief est harts to slay."" 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

Aud thus in rage did say : 

" Ere thus I will outbraved be 

One of us two shall die ! 
I know thee well ! an earl thou art, 

Lord Piercy! So am I. 

"But trust me, Piercy, pity it were, 

And great offence, to kill 
Any of these our harmless men. 

For they have done no ill. 

"Let thou and I the battle try. 

And set our men aside."" 
" Accurst be he." Lord Piercy said. 

"By whom this is denied." 

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, — 

Witherington was his name, — 
Who said, "1 would not have it told 

To Henr\' our king, for shame. 



DESCEIPTIOISr AJSTD NAEEATION. 



449 



"That e'er my captain fought on foot, 

And I stood looking on ; 
You two be earls," said Witheriugton, 

'•And I a Squire alone. 



Who never spake more words than these ; 

"Fight on, my merry men all! 
For why? my life is at an end; 

Lord Piercy sees my fall." 



"I'll do the best that do I may. 
While I have power to stand ! 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
I'll fight with heart and hand ! " 



Then, leaving strife. Earl Piercy took 
The dead man by the hand. 

And said, "Earl Douglas! for thy life 
Would I had lost my land ! 



Our English archers bent their bows- 
Their hearts were good and true, — 

At the first flight of arrows sent 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 



" O Christ! my very heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake ! 
For sure a more renowned knight 

Mischance did never take! " 



To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Douglas bade on the bent; 
Two captains moved with mickle might- 

Their spears in shivers went. 



A knight amongst the Scots there was. 

Who saw Earl Douglas die. 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Lord Piercy. 



They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found, 

But many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 



Sir Hugh Montgoraerj^ he was called, 
Who, with a spear full bright. 

Well mounted on a gallant steed. 
Ran fiercely through the fight : 



O Christ! it was great grief to see 
How each man chose his spear. 

And how the blood out of their breasts 
Did gush like water clear ! 



He passed the English archers all 

Without a dread or fear. 
And through Earl Piercy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear. 



At last these two stout eai'ls did meet. 
Like captains of great might; 

Like lions moved, they laid on load. 
They made a cruel fight. 



With such a vehement force and might 

His body he did gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 



They fought until they both did sweat 
With swords of tempered steel, 

Till blood upon their cheeks, like rain, 
Thev trickling down did feel. 



So thus did both those nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain, 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble earl was slain : 



"Oh, yield thee, Piercy!" Douglas said, 
•• And in faith I will thee bring 

Where thou shall high advanced be 
By James, our Scottish king. 

"Thy ransom I Avill freely give. 

And this report of thee : 
Thou art the most coiirageous knight 

That ever I did see." 

"No. Douglas! " quoth Lord Piercy then, 

"Thy proffer I do scorn; 
I will not yield to anj^ Scot 

That ever yet was born ! " 

With that there came an arro\\' keen 

Out of an English bow. 
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart 

A deep and deadly blow. 



He had a bow bent in his hand 

Made of a ti'usty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Unto the head drew he : 

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery, 

So right the shaft he set. 
The gray goosewing that was thereon 

In his heart-blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun. 
For when they rung the evening bell 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Piercy there were slain 

Sir John of Ogerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliffe and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron; 



45U 



THE GOLDEISr TREASURY. 



Aud with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralpli Eaby there was slain, 
"WTiose prowess did surmount. 

For Witheringtou needs must I wail. 

As one in doleful dumj^s; 
For when his legs were smitten off. 

He fought upon his stumps. 

And with Earl Douglas there were slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomerj'; 
Sir Charles Carrel, that from the tield 

One foot would never fly; 

Sir Charles Murraj"^ of Ratcliffe too, — 

His sister's son was he. — 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved he could not be. 

Aud the Lord Maxwell, in like case, 

Did witli Earl Douglas die; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish sjiears 

Scarce tiftj'-five did Hy. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen 

Went home but fifty-three; 
The rest were slain in Chevy Chase, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

Xext day did nianj^ widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away ; 
And kissed them dead a thousand times 

"VMien they were clad in clay. 



This news was brought to Edinburgh, 
^Vliere Scotland's king did reign, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was ^\"ith an arrow slain. 

'•Oh, heavy news! '' King James did sa}-; 

"Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he!"' 

Like tidings to King Henrj' came 

Within as short a space, 
That Piercj' of Xorthiunberlaud 

Was slain in Chevy Chase. 

•■Xow, God be with him I" said our king, 

"Sith "t will no better be ; 
I trust I have within my realm 

Five hundred good as he I 

"Yet shall not Scot or Scotland say 
But I will vengeance take, 
And be revenged ou them all 
For brave Lord Piercy's sake." 

This vow full well the king performed 

After on Humble Down; 
In one day fifty knights were slain, 

"With lords of great renown ; 

Aud of the rest, of small account, 

Did many hundreds die : 
Thus ended the hunting in Chevy Chase 

Made by the Earl Piercj'. 

God save the king, and bless the land 

In plenty, joy, and peace! 
And grant henceforth that foul debate 

"Twixt noblemen may cease ! 



-a-s>i-^ 



THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. 



tJJD Ironsides at anchor lay. 
In the harbor of Mahon! 
A dead calm rested on the ba}-, 
ii The waves to sleej:) had gone; 
"VMien little Jack, the Captain's son, 

In gallant hardihood, 
Climbed spar aud shroud, and there ni^on 
The mainmast rose and stood. 

A shudder ran through eveiy vein. — 

All eyes were turned on high! 
ITiere stood the boy, with dizzj- brain. 

Between the sea and sky ; 
No hold had he above, below; 

Alone he stood in air : 
To that far height none dared to go. — 

Xo aid could reach him there. 



We gazed, but not a man could speak,— 

With horror all aghast, — 
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek. 

We watched the quivering mast. 
The atmosphere grew thick and hot. 

And of a lurid hue ; 
As riveted unto the spot. 

Stood officers and crew. 

The father came on deck : — he gasped, 

"Oh, God; thy will be doiu;!'' 
l"hen suddenly a rifle grasped, 

And aimed it at his son. 
"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! 

Jural) or I fire!" he said; 
"Tliat only chance your life can save; 

Jump, jump, boy!*' He obeyed. 



descriptiojST and nareation. 



451 



He sunk, — be rose, — be lived, — be moved, — 

He for the sbip struck out. 
On board Ave bailed the lad beloved, 

With inauy a inaulj^ shout. 



His father dre\\', la silent joy, 
Those wet arms round bis neck, 

And folded to his heart his boy, — 
Then fainted on the deck. 

COLTON. 



THE COMING-BACK. 



Spi^SlI ! well I mind the calendar. 

Faithful through a thousand years! 
Of the painted race of flowers. 
Exact to days, exact to hours, 
Counted on the spacious dial, 
Yon broidered zodiac gu-ds. 
I know the trusty al- 

niauac 
Of the punctual com- 
ing-back. 
On their due-days, of 

the birds. 
I marked them yester- 

morn, 
A flock of flnches dart- 
ing, 
Beneath the 

arch. 
Piping, as th^y flew, 

a march. 
Belike the one tin \ 

used in parting 
Last year from sfini 
oak or larch ; 



Or to his niche in the apple-tree. 
I greet with joj' the choral trains 
Fresh from palms, and Cuba's canes 
Best gems of Xature"s cabinet. 
With dews of tropic morning w<.'t, 




Dusky sparrows in a crowd 
Diving, darting northward free. 
Suddenly betook them all. 
Eveiy one to his hole in the wall, 



Beloved of children, bards and Spring, 

Of birds, your perfect virtues bring. 

Your, song, your forms, your rhythmic flight. 

Your manners for the heart's delight. 

Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof. 

Here weave your chamber weather-proof, 

Forgive our harms and condescend 

To man, as to a lubber friend. 

And, generous, teach his awkAvard race, 

Courage, and probity, and grace ! 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



452 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 




TVOXDEEFUL COXTEAST. 



O^IBEE forests shed a melancholy grandeur over the useless magnifi- 
cence of nature, and hid, in their deep shades, the rich soil which the 
sun had never warmed. Xo ax had leveled the giant progeny of the 
crowded groves, in which the fantastic forms of withered Umbs, that 
had been blasted and riven by lightning, contrasted strangely with the 
verdant freshness of a younger growth of branches. The wanton 
irrape-vine, seeming by its own power to have sprung from the earth, 
and to have fastened its leafy coils on the top of the tallest forest- 
tree, swung in the air with everj' breeze, like the loosened shrouds of 
a ship. Trees might everywhere be seen breaking from their root 
in the marshy soil, and threatening to fall with the first rude gust; 
while the orround was strewn wuth the ruins of former forests, over 
which a profusion of wild flowers wasted their freshness in mockery 
of the gloom. Reptiles sported in the stagnant pools, or crawled 
unharmed over jiiles of moldering trees. The spotted deer couched among the 
thickets: but not to hide, for there was no pursuer; and there were none but wild 
animals to crop the uncut herbage of the productive prairies. Silence reigned, broken, 
it ma}" have been, by the flight of land-birds or the flapping of water-fowl, and rendered 
more dismal by the howl of beasts of prey. The streams, not yet limited to a channel, 
spread over sand-bars, tufted with copses of willow, or waded through wastes of 
reeds; or slowly but surely undermined the groups of sycamores that grew by their 
side. The smaller brooks spread out their sedgy swamps, that were overhung b}' 
clouds of mosquitoes ; masses of decajdng vegetation fed the exhalations with the 
seeds of pestilence, and made the balmv air of the summer's evening as deadly as 
it seemed grateful. Vegetable life and death were mingled hideously together. The 
horrors of corrujition frowned on the fi-uitless fertility of uncultivated nature. And 
man, the occupant of the soil, was wild as the savage scene, in harmony with the 
rude nature by which he was surrounded: a vagi'ant over the continent, in constant 
warfai-e with his fellow-man ; the bark of the birch his canoe ; strings of shells 
his ornaments, his record, and his coin ; the roots of the forest among his resources 
for food; his knowledge in architecture surpassed, both in strength and durability, 
by the skill of the beaver ; bended saplings the beams of his house ; the branches 
and rind of trees its roof ; drifts of forest leaves his couch ; mats of bulrushes his 
protection against the winter's cold; his religion the adoration of nature; his morals 
the promptings of undisciplined instinct; disputing with the wolves and bears the 
lordship of the soil, and dividing with the squirrel the wild fiiiits with which the 
universal woodlands abounded. 

How changed is the scene from that on which Hudson gazed I The earth glows 
with the colors of civilization: the banks of the streams are enameled with richest 
grasses ; woodlands and cultivated fields are harmoniously blended : the birds of 
spring find their delight in orchards and trim gardens, variegated with choicest plants 
from every temperate zone ; while the brilliant flowers of the tropics bloom from 



DESCEIPTION AND NAREATION. 



453 



the windows of the green-house and the saloon. The yeoman, living like a good 
neighbor near the fields he cultivates, glories in the fruitfulness of the valleys, and 
counts, with honest exultation, the flocks and herds that browse in safety on the 
hills. The thorn has given way to the rosebush; the cultivated vine clambers over 
rocks where the brood of serpents used to nestle ; while Industry smiles at the changes 
she has wrought, and inhales the bland air which now has health on its wings. 

And man is still in harmony with nature, which he has subdued, cultivated and 
adorned. For him the rivers that flow to remotest climes, mingle their waters; for 
him the lakes gain new outlets to the ocean ; for him the arch spans the flood, 
and science spreads iron pathways to the recent wilderness ; for him the hills yield 
up the shining marble and the enduring granite ; for him the forests of the interior 
come down in immense rafts ; for him the marts of the city gather the produce of 
every clime, and libraries collect the works of genius of every language and every age. 
The passions of society are chastened into purity ; manners are made benevolent by 
civilization; and the virtue of the country is the guardian of its peace. Science 
investigates the powers of every plant and mineral, to find medicines for disease; 
schools of surgery rival the establishments of the old world. An active daily press, 
vigilant from party interests, free even to dissoluteness, watches the progress of society, 
and communicates every fact that can interest humanity; the genius of letters begins 
to unfold his powers in the warm sunshine of public favor. And, while idle curiosity 
may take its walk in shady avenues by the ocean side, commerce pushes its wharves 
into the sea, blocks up the wide rivers with its fleets, and, sending its ships, the pride 
of naval architecture, to every clime, defies every wind, outrides every tempest, and 
invades every zone. 

George Bancroft. 



-•o.^-^.<>.. 



THE LAN])ING OF THE PRIMROSE. 



vr:la/-= 



USTEALIA'S land was swarming 

With mjTiads, tier on tier; 
Like bees, thej' clung and clustered 
On wall and pile and pier. 



And conies she deeply freighted 
With human guilt and shame? 

And wait those crowds expectant 
To greet with loud acclaim? 



The wanderer and the the outcast — 
Hope — Penitence — Despair — 

The felon and the freeman, 
Were intermingling there. 



Or, comes she treasure-laden, 
And ache those anxious eyes 

For sight of her rich cargo — 
Her goodly merchandise? 



There ran a restless murmur, 
A murmur deep, not loud ; 

For every heart was thrilling 
Through all that motly crowd; 



See, see ! they lower the long-boat, 
And now they man the barge ; 

Tricked out and manned so bravely. 
For no ignoble charge. 



And every eye was straining 
To where a good ship lay. 

With England's red-cross waving 
Above her decks that day. 



Gold gleams on breast and shoulder 
Of England's own true blue; 

That sure must be the captain 
Salutes his gallant crew; 



454 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



And that the captain's lady 
They're handing down the side ; 

"Steady, my hearts, now, steady I" 
Was that the coxswain cried. 



"A guard, a guard!" in haste then 

The governor calls out; 
"Protect the lady's landing 

From all that rabble rout! "• 




"From Eng^lish earth transported, 
A little lowlv flower." 



"Hold on," — she's safely seated; 

"In oai-s," — a sparkling splash; 
Hats off on deck — one cheer now — 

"Pull, hearties !" —off they dash. 



Her foot is on the gunwale, 
Her eye on that turmoil; 

A moment so she liugei-s. 
Then treads Australia's soil. 



And now the lines long stretching 
Of earnest gazers, strain 

(Converging to one centre) 
The landing-place to gain. 



AVith looks of hurried wonder, 

She gazes all about ; 
And. oh! her woman's nature 

Calls that no "rabble rout." 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



455 



For well she reads the feeling 
Each face expressive wears ; 

And well she knows what wakes it— 
That precious thing she bears. 

That precious thing — oh, wondrous! 

A spell of potent power ; 
From English earth transported, 

A little lowly flower. 

Be blessings on that lady. 
Be blessings on that hand ; 

The first to plant the Primrose 
Upon the Exile's laud ! 

The sound had gone before her. 
No eye had closed that night; 

So yearned they for the morrow, 
So longed they for the light. 

She smiles while tears are dropping, 
She holds the treasure high ; 

And land and sea resounding 
Ring out with one wild cry. 

And sobs at its subsiding 
From manly breasts are heard ; 

Stern natures, hearts guilt-hardened 
To woman's softness stirred. 

One gazes all intentness, 
That felon-bov — and lo ! 



The bold, bright eyes are glistening, 
Long, long, unmoistened so. 

The woniau holds her child up : 

"Look, little one!" cries she, 
"I pulled such when as blithesome 

And innocent as thee!" 

No word the old man utters, — 

His earnest ej^es grow dim; 
One spot beyond the salt sea 

Is present now to him. 

There blooms the earliest primrose, 

His father's grave hard by ; 
There lieth all his kindred. 

There he shall never lie. 

The living mass moves onward, 

The lady and her train ; 
They press upon her path still. 

To look and look again. 

Yet on she moves securely. 

No guards are needed there; 
Of her they hem so closelj- 

They would not harm a hair. 

Be blessings on that lady, 

Be blessings on that hand : 
The first to plant the Primrose, 

Upon the Exile's land ! 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 




COME WITH THE BIRDS IN THE SPRING. 



f/^OME with the birds in the Spring, 

Thou whose voice rivalleth theirs; 
iP Come with the flowers, and bring 

Sweet shame to their bloom unawares : 



k 



Com.e, — but O, how can I wait! 

Come through the snows of to-day! 
Come, and the gray Earth elate 

Shall leap for thy sake into May! 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 



456 



THE GOLDEN TEEAStTRY, 



li^ THE MAIXE WOODS. 



1.— THE FORESTS. 




ELA.T is most striking in the Maine wildei'ness is the continuousness of the 
forest, with fewer open intervals, or glades, than you had imagined. 
Except the few burnt lands, the narrow intervals on the rivers, the bare 
tops of the high mountains, and the lakes and streams, the forest is 





uninterrupted. It is 

than you had anticipated — a damp and intricate 

wilderness, in the spring everyAvhere wet and miry. 

The aspect of the country, indeed, is universally 

stern and savage, excepting the distant views of 

the forest from hills, and the lake-prospects, which are mild and civilizing in a degree. 



'm^^mx^ 



DESCKIPTION AND XAEEATION. 



457 




MOUNTAIN LAKE. 



The lakes are something which you are unprepared for; they lie up so high, exposed 
to the light, and the forest is diminished to a fine fringe on their edges, with here and 

_ _.—__ . there a blue mountain, 

like amethyst jewels 
set around some jewel 
of the first water — so 
anterior, so superior to 
all the changes that are 
to take place on their 
shores, even now civil 
and refined, and fair as 
they can ever be. These 
are not the artificial forests of an English king — a royal preserve merely. Here prevail 
no forest-laws but those of Nature. The aborigines have never been dispossessed, nor 
Nature disforested. It is 
a country full of ever- 
green trees, of mossy sil- 
ver-birches and watery 
maples — the ground dot- 
ted with insipid, small, red 
berries, and strewn with 
damp and moss-grown 
rocks; a country diversi- 
fied with innumerable lakes 
and rapid streams, peopled 
with trout, with salmon, 
shad, and pickerel, and 
other fishes. The forest 
resounds at rare intervals 
with the note of the chick- 
adee, the blue-jay, and the 
woodpecker, the scream of 
fish-hawk and the eao-le, 
the laugh of the loon, and 
the whistle of ducks alons: 
the solitary streams; at 
night, with the hooting of 
owls and the howlino- 
of wolves ; in summer, 
swarming with myriads of 
black flies and mosqui- 
toes, more formidable than 
wolves to the white man. 

Such is the home of the 
moose, the bear, the caribou, the wolf, the beavor, and the Indian. Who shall aescribe the 
inexpressible tenderness and immortal life of the grim forest, where Nature, though it be 




DENIZENS OF THE FOREST. 



458 



THE GOLDEX TEEASLTRY. 



midwinter, is ever in her spring ; Avhere the moss-grown and decaying trees are not old, but 
seem to enjoy a perpetual youth : and blissful, innocent Nature, like a serene infant, is too 
happy to make a noise, except by a few tinkling, lisping birds 

II.— SIIOOTIXG E.\Pro8. 



and trickling rills 



"We reached the dam at noon. The boatmen went through one of the log sluices in 
the bateau, where the fall was ten feet at the bottom, and took us in below. Here was the 
longest rapid in our 'voyage, and perhaps the running this was as dangerous and arduous a 
task as any. In shooting rapids the boatman has this problem to solve : to choose a 
circuitous and safe course amid a thousand sunken rocks, scattered over a long distance, at 
the same time that he is moving steadily on at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. Stop he 
can not: the only question is, AVhere will he go? The bow-man chooses the course with all 
his eyes about him, striking broad off with his paddle, and drawing the boat by main force 
into her course. The stern-man faithfully follows the bow. Down the rapids we shot at 
a headlong rate. If we struck a rock, we were split from end to end in an instant. Now 
like a bait bobbing for some river monster amid the eddies, now darting to this side of the 
stream, now to that, gliding swift and smooth near to our destruction, or striking broad off 
with the paddle and drawing the boat to right or left with all our might in order to avoid a 
rock, we soon ran thi'ough the mile, and floated in Quakish Lake. 

After such a voyage, the troubled and angry waters, which once had seemed terrible 
and not be trifled with, apjieared tamed and subdued: they had been bearded and worried 
in their channels, pricked and whipped into submission with the spike-pole and paddle, and 
all their spirit and their danger taken out of them ; and the most swollen and impetuous 
rivers seemed but ])lavthinofs henceforth. I bejran at length to understand the boatmen's 
familiarit}' with and contempt for the rapids. "Those Fowler boys," said Mrs. M., " are 
perfect ducks for the water." They had run down to Lincoln, according to her, thirty or 
forty miles, in a bateau, in the night, for a doctor, when it was so dark that they could not 
see a rod before them, and the river was swollen so as to be almost a continuous rapid, so 
that the doctor cried, when they brought him up by daylight, " Why, Tom, how did you 
see to steer?" " AVe didn't steer much — onl}^ kept her straight." And yet they met 
with no accident. 

Hexky D. Thoreau. 

Li3-^6^-E_^ 



A LIFE OiST THE OCEAN WAVE. 



LIFE on the ocean wave. 

A home on the rolling deep ; 
AVhere the scattered waters rave. 

And the winds their revels keep! 
Like an eagle caged I pine 
'On this dull, unchanging shore: 
Oh, give me the flashing brine. 

The spray and the tempest's roar I 

Once more on the deck I stand 
Of my own swift-gliding craft: 

Set sail! farewell to the land; 
The gale follows fair abaft. 



We shoot through the sparkling foam. 
Like au ocean-bird set free, — . 

Like the ocean-bird, our home 
We'll find far out on the sea. 

The laud is no longer in \iew, 

ITie clouds liave begun to frown: 
But with a stout vessel and crew. 

We'll say. Let the storm come down I 
And the song of our hearts shall be. 

AATiile the ^vind and the waters rave. 
A home on the rolling sea! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 

Epes Sakgent. 



DESCEIPTION AND NAEEATIOX. 



459 



SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 



'"Ir all the rides since the birth of Time, 
Told in story or sung iu rhyme, — 
On Apuleius' Golden A.ss, 
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, 
Witch astride of a human hack, 
Islam's lorophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from jNIarblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart, 
Bj- the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkej', head of owl. 
Wing a-droop like a raiued-on fowl, 
Feathered and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young. 
Strong of muscle and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rockj- lane. 
Shouting and singing the shi-ill refrain: 
'• Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
Bj- the women o' Morble'ead! '' 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips. 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
Bacchus round somfe antique vase; 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair. 
With conch-shells blowing and flsh-horns' twang- 
Over and over the Maenads -sang : 
•' Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

Small pitj' for him 1 He sailed away 
From a leaking ship in Chalem- Bay, — 
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own towns-people on her deck ! 
"Layby! layby!" they called to him ; 
Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of tish again! " 
And off he sailed through the fog and rain! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried In a cart 
Bj' the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in daik Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not be I 



What did the \\ inds and sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 

Through the street, on either side. 
Up tlew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound. 
Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
Shook head and fist and hat and cane, 
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! '' 

Sweetly along the Salem road 

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 

Riding there in his sorry trim. 

Like an Indian idol, glum and grim. 

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 

Of voices shouting far and near : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

" Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried, — 

"What to me is this noisy ride? 

What is the shame that clothes the skin 

To the nameless horror that lives within? 

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck. 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 
Said old Floj'd Ireson, for his hard heart 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
Bj' the women of Marblehead! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, "God has touched him, — why should we?" 
Said an old wife, mourning her onlj- son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run! " 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, * 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in. 
And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 

John Greenleak Whittier. 



4G0 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 




NOON IN MIDSUMMER. 



^HE summer floats on even ^\'ing, 

Xor sails more far, uor draws more near; 
~^^^ Poised calm between the budding spring 
Jl And sweet decadence of tbe year. 



In shadowed fields the cattle stand, 
The dreaming river scarcely flows. 

The sky hangs cloudless o'er the laud, 
And nothing comes and nothing goes. 



DESCKIPTIOlSr AND NAEEATION. 



461 



A pause of fullness set beUveen 
The sowing and tbe reaping time ; 

What is to be and what has been 
Joined each to each in perfect rhyme. 

So comes high noon 'twixt morn and eve, 
So comes full tide 'twixt ebb and flow, 

Or midnight 'twixt the day we leave 
And that new day to which we go. 



Full, fruitful hours by growing won, 
A restful space 'mid old and new ; 

When all there was to do is done, 
Aud nothing yet there is to do. 

No days like these so deeply blest, 
That look nor backward nor before ; 

Their large fulfillment, ample rest. 
Make life flow wider evermore. 

Louisa Bushnell. 




" How silent are the winds ! No billow roars ; 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores I " 

THE SEA IN CALM. 



^OOK what immortal floods the sunset pours 

Upon us. — Mark I how still (as though in dreams 
Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean seems; 
How silent are the winds ! No billow roars : 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores! 
The silver margin which aye runneth round 
The moon-enchanted sea hath here no sound; 
Even Echo si^eaks not on these radiant moors ! 



VVTiat! is the giant of the ocean dead, 

Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun? 

No; he reposes! Now his toils are done. 

More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. 

So mightiest powers bj' deepest calms are fed', 

And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be ! 

Bryan Waller Pkoctok. 
(Bany Cornwall.) 



SABBATH MOElSriT^G. 



I^VERY Sabbath morning, in the summer-time, I thrust back the curtain, to watch the 
sunrise stealing dow^n a steeple which stands opposite my chamber window. First 
the weather-cock begins to flash ; then a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy 
aspect ; next it encroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the dial to glisten 
like gold, as it points to the gilded figure of the hour. Now the loftiest window 
gleams, and now the lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked 
strongly out. At length the morning glory, in its descent from heaven, comes down the 
•2\) 



462 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



stone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple, glowing with fresh radiance, while 
the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacent buildings. 
Methinks, though the same sun brightens it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a 
peculiar robe of brightness for the Sabbath. 

By dwelling near a church a person soon contracts an attachment for the edifice. We 
naturally personify it, and conceive its massive walls and its dim emptiness to be instinct 
with a calm and meditative and somcwliat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands 
foremost in our thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses us as a giant with a mind com- 
prehensive and disci-iminating enough to care for the great and small concerns of all the 
town. Hourly, while it speaks a moral to the few^ that think, it reminds thousands of 
busy individuals of their separate and most secret* affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings 
abroad the hurried and irregular accents of general alarm ; never have gladness and 
festivity found a better utterance than by its tongue; and when the dead are slowly 
passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy voice to bid them welcome. 

Yet, in spite of this connection with human interests, what a moral loneliness, on 
week-days, broods round about its stately height ! It has no kindred with the houses 
above which it towers ; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because 
the crowd are elbowing their passage at its base. A glance at the body of the church 
deepens this impression. Within, by the light of distant windows, amid refracted 
shadows, we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless 
pulpit, and the clock, which tells to solitude how time is passing. Time, — where man 
lives not, — what is it but eternity? And in the church, w^e might suppose, are garnered 
up, throughout the week, all thoughts and feelings that have reference to eternity, until 
the holy day comes round again to let them forth. Might not, then, its more appropriate 
site be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old trees to wave around it, and throw 
their solemn shadows over a quiet green ? 

But on the Sabbath I watch the earliest sunshine, and fancy that a holier brightness 
marks the day, when there shall be no buzz of voices on the exchange, nor traffic in the 
shops, nor crowd nor business anywhere but at church. ]Many have fancied so. For my 
own part, whether I see it scattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across 
the fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out the figure of the casement 
on my chamber floor, still I recognize the Sabbath sunshine. And ever let me recognize 
it ! Some illusions, and this among them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts may 
flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings and settle down; but so long as I imagine 
that the earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its sanctity, on the Sabbath, — 
Avhile that blessed sunshine lives within me, — never can my soul have lost the instinct of 
its faith. If it have gone astray, it will return again. 

Nathaniel Haavthoene. 



-3^1)5-^ 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 



"IQjJPEAK! speak! thou feai-fiil guest! 
"Wlio, with thy hollow breast 
Still iu rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me ! 



Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thj' tleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
"WTiy dost thou haunt me?-" 



i 



DESCRIPTION AND NAREATION. 



463 



Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dnll A-oice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

'•I was a Viking old ! 

]VIy deeds, though manifold. 

No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed that hi thy verse 
1'hou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse; 

For this I sought thee. 

••Far in the Northern Land, 
Bj^ the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, vfith my childish hand. 

Tamed the gerfalcon; 
And, with my skates fast bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

••Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear. 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

"But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
ilany the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

'•Manj' a wassail-bout 
Wore the long winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail. 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

"Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea. 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
Burning yet tender; 



And as the white stars shine 
On the (lark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid. 
Yielding, j-et half afraid. 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows vN'ere plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest, 

By the hawk frighted. 

"Blight in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory. 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughtei''s hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

"\^1lile the brown ale he quaffed. 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly. 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

"She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild. 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I \\as discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Whj' did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded? 

"Scarce had I put to sea. 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was sh(; 

Among the Norsemen! — 
When on the white sea-strand. 
Waving his armgd hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

"Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

M^ien the wind failed us; 
And with a suddeu flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 



464 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



"And as, to catch the gale, 
Eouud veered the tUipping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail. 

Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

"As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 

With his prey laden. 
So toward the open main. 
Beating t(j sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

"Three weeks we west\\'ard bore, 
And when tlie storm was o'er. 
Cloudlike we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward ; 
There lor my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
"Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking sea-ward. 



"There lived we manj' j'ears; 
Time dried the maiden's teai-s; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes. 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

"Still grew my bosom then. 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men. 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear. 
Fell I upon mj- si^ear, 

O, death was grateful ! 

"Thus, seamed with many scars. 
Bursting these prison bars. 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!" 

Thus the tale ended. 

Henry Wabswokth Longfellow 



-s-se,^ 



A'N EYE]:sriI^G WALK IIsT YIRGII^^IA. 



SHALL not soon forget the last evening spent in this place. Having traveled onjy 
fourteen miles, I did not feel as tired as usual; and after supper I strolled out 
alone along the windings of a little stream that skirts a narrow strip of meadow 
between the brook and the mountains. You will confess my landscapes are well- 
watered, for every one has a river. But such is the case in this region, whei'e all 
passes of the mountains are made by little rivers, that in process of time have 
labored through, and left a space for a road on their banks. 

In the course of the ramble the moon rose over the mountain to the eastward, which, 
beino- just at hand, seemed to bring the planet equally near ; and the bright eyes of the 
stars beo-an to glisten, as if weeping the dews of the evening. As I continued strolling 
forward, there gradually came a perfect calm, and even the aspen-tree whispered no more. 
But it was not the deathlike calm of a winter's night, when the northwest wind grows quiet, 
and the frost begins in silence to forge the fetters for the running brooks and the gentle 
current of life that flows through the veins of the forest. The voice of man and beast 
was indeed unheard, but the river murmured, and the insects chirped in the mild summer 



There is something sepitlchral in the repose of a winter night, but in the genial season 
of the year, though the night i-; the emblem of repose, it is the repose of the couch, not 
of the tomb. Nature still breathes in the buzz of insects, the whisperings of the forests, 
and the murmurs of the brooks. We know she will awake in the morning, with her smiles, 
her bloom, her zephyrs, and her warbling birds. In such a night as this, if a man loves 



DESCEirl'lON AND NAKKATION. 



4(J5 



any human being in this wide world, he will find it out, for there will his thoughts first 
centre. If he has in store any sweet or bitter recollections which are lost in the bustle 
of the world, they will come without being called. If in his boyish days he wrestled and 
wrangled and rambled with, yet loved, some chubby boy, he will remember the days of his 
childhood, its companions, cares, and pleasures. If in his days of romance he used to 
walk in the evening with some blue-eyed, musing, melancholy maid, whom the ever-rolling 
wave of life dashed away from him forever, he will recall her voice, her eye, and her form. 
If any heavy and severe disaster has fallen on his riper manhood, and turned the future into 
a gloomy and unpromising wilderness, at such a time he will feel it bitterly. Or if it 
chance that he is grown an old man, and has lived to see all that owned his blood, or shared 
his affections, struck down to the earth like dead leaves in autumn, in such a night he will 
call their dear shades around, and wish himself a shadow. 

James K. Paulding. 



"OLD IRONSIDES." 

[Written with reference to tlie proposed brealiing-up of the famous U. S. frigate " Constitution."] 




, tear hear her tattered ensign clown ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an ej^e has danced to see 

That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar : 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the cloud's no more! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood 
And waves were white beloM', 



No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee : 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea! 

O better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave! 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep. 

And there should be her grave : 
Nail to the mast her holy flag. 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms. 

The lightning and the gale! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 



LO\T<^ to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the \\<^r]d for fourscore years. 

And they say that I am old — 
That my heart is rijie for the reaper Death, 

And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true — it is very true — 

I am old, and I " bide my time; " 
But my heart will leaji at a scene like this. 

And I half renew my i)rime. 



Play on ! play on ! I am with you there. 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 

And the rush of the breathless swing; 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smothered call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



466 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 




" Upon a rustic bridg'e 

^Ve pass a g:\ilf in wlrich the willows dip 
Their pendant boughs." 

THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 



U^ESCEXDIXG now (but cautious, lest too fast) 
<^^ A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge 
Jjl We pass a gulf in whicb the willows dip 
^1' Their pendant boughs, stooping as if to drink : 
Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme. 
We mount again, and feel at every step 



Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 
He. not unlike the great ones of mankind, 
Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark. 
Toils much to earn a monumental pile 
That may record the mischiefs he has done. 

William Cowpeb. 



DESCKIPTION AND NAKEATIOX. 



467 




THE Il^^DIAI^ CHIEF. 

HINK of the country for which the Indians fought ! Who can blame 
them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that 
glorious eminence, that 

"throne of royal state, which far 



Outshone the wealth of Orinus and of Ind, 
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
Showers on her Ivings barbaric pearl and gold," — 

as he looked down and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, 
at a summer sunset — the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the 
slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the 
island groups, the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart 
burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, 
from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger? As the river 
chieftains, the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains, ranged 
this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest dis- 
appearing beneath the settler's ax — the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills? Can 
we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the 
Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Moun- 
tain, in compaey with a friendly settler, — contemplating the progress already made 
b}^ the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing 
into the wilderness, — should fold his arms and say: 

"White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of 
my fathers but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will 
still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. 
By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these 
fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. 

" Stranger, the land is mine ! I understand not these paper rights. I gave not 
my consent, when, as thou sayCvSt, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, 
of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs ; they could sell no more. How could 
my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They 
knew not what they did. 

"The stranger came, a timid suppliant, few and feeble, and asked to lie down on 
the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little 
piece of land to raise corn for his women and children ; and now he is become strong, 
and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, ' It 
is mine.' 

"Stranger! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to 
live together. There is poison in the white man's cup ; the white man's dog barks at 
the i-ed man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? 
Shall I go to the South, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I 
wander to the West? — the fierce Mohawk, the man-eater, is my foe. Shall I fly 
to the East? — the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and 



468 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. 
Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now 
take heed to thy steps ; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, 
my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at 
thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of 
midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap 
in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou 
shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife ; thou 
shalt build, and I will burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. 
Go thy way for this time in safety, — but i-emember, stranger, there is eternal war 
between me and thee.''^ 

Edavakd Everett. 

THE WINDMILL. 



|EH0LD ! a giant am I! 
Aloft here in my tower, 
"With my granite jaws I devour 
The maize, and the wheat, and the lye, 
And grind them into flour. 

I loolc down over the farms ; 

In the fields of grain I see 

The haiwest that is to be, 
And I fling to the air my arms, 

For I know it is aU for me. 

I hear the sound of flails 
Far off from the threshing-floors 
In barns, with their open doors, 

And the wind, the wind in my sails 
Louder and louder roars. 



I stand here in my place, 
With my foot on tlie rock below. 
And whichever way it may blow 

I meet it face to face. 
As a brave man meets his foe. 

And while we wrestle and strive. 

My master, the miller, stands 

And feeds me with his hands; 
For he knows who makes him thrive, 

■\Vho makes him lord of lauds. 

On Sundays I take my rest ; 

Church-going bells begin 

Their low, melodious din ; 
I cross my arras on my breast, 

And all is peace within. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



vse.^ 



THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 






IpN every village marked with little spire, 

^fe Embowered in trees and hardly known to fame, 

f There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire. 
A matron old. whom we Schoolmistress name, 
Wlio boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the power of this relentless dame. 
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely 
shent. 
***** 

N'ear to this dome is found a patch so green, 
0n which the tribe their gambols do display. 
And at the door imprisoning board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should sti'ay. 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! 



The noises intermixed, which thence resound. 
Do learning's little tenement betray, 
"WTiere sits the dame, disguised in look profound. 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield; 
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow. 
As is the harebell that adorns the field; 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
'Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fear entwined, 
With dark distimst, and sad repentance filled. 
And steadfast hate, and sharp artliction joined. 
And furv micontroulled, and chastisement unkind. 



DESCRIPTIOX AXD XARRATION. 



469 



A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown, 
A russet khtle fenced the nipping air; 
'Tvvas simple russet, but it was her own ; 
'Twas hei' owu country bred the tlock so fair; 
'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare ; 
And, sooth to saj-, her pupils ranged around. 
Through pious awe did term it passing rare, 
For thej' in gaping wonderment abound, 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight 
on ground. 

Albeit, no flattery did corrujit liei- truth, 

No pompons title did debauch her ear, 

Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear; 

No would esteem him act as mought behove 

Who should not honored eld with these revere: 

For never title yet so mean could prove. 

But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 



Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak 
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew, 
Wliere no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak. 
But herbs for use and physic, not a few 
Of gray renown, within those borders grew; 
The tufted basil, j^un-provoking thyme. 
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue. 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb. 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to 
rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around. 

And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue. 

And plaintain ribbed, that heals the reaper's wound. 

And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posj' found. 



And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound. 
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom. 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare 
perfume. 



Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; 

If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave. 

But in her garden found a summer-seat: 

Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 

How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 

"While taunting foemen did a song entreat. 

All for the nonce untuning exevy string. 

Upon their useless lyres — small heart had they to 



For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore. 
And passed much time in truly virtuous deed ; 
And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore 
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed. 
And tortuous Death was true Devotion's meed ; 
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn. 
That n' ould on wooden image place her creed; 
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn : 
Ah! dearest Lord! forefend, thilk days should e'er 
return. 



Right well she knew each temper to descrj^ 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise. 
Some with vile copper pi-ize exalt on high. 
And some entice with pittance small of praise. 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
While with quaint arts the giddy cro\^'d she s\\'ays ; 
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 
"William Shenstone. 



TAM O'SHANTER. 



||HEN chapman billies leave the street, 
An' di-outhy neebors neebors meet. 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nai)py. 
An' getting fou and unco happj-. 
We thinkna on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Wliare sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 



This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surj^asses, 
For honest men and bonnie lasses) . 

Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise 
As ta'en thj^aiu wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skcllum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 
That ilka melder, vvi' the miller 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 



470 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



That every naig was ca"d a shoe ou 
The smith and thee gat roariug fou ou; 
That at the Lord's house, eveu on Sunday, 
Thou drauk \vi" Kii-kton Jean till Mondaj\ 
She prophesied that, late or soon. 
Thou woidd be found deep drowned in Doon ; 
Or catched wi" warlocks i' the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah. gentle dames! it gars me greet 
To think how monj"^ counsels sweet. 
How monj' lengthened, sage advices, 
The husbaud f rae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast b.y an ingle, bleezing fiuel.v. 
Wi" reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johuny. 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronj- ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter: 
And a3-e the ale was growing better : 
The hmdlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi" favors, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was read.y chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam didna mind the storm a whustle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drowned himself amaug the nappy I 
As bees flee harae wi" lades o" treasure, 
Tlie minutes winged their- wa\' wi" pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a" the ills o" life victorious I 

But pleasures are like p()p])ies spread. 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snow-fall in the river. 

A moment white, then melts forever; 

Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbo^^•"s lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Xae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour o" night's black arch the keystane. 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 

And sic a night he taks the road in 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
The wind blew as 't wad blawu its last. 

The rattling showers rose on the blast: 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed : 
Loud. deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: 
That night, a child might understand. 
The Doil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare. Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg.) 



Tam skelijit on through dub and mire, 
Despisiug wind, and rain, and Are: 
'WTiiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glowering round wi" prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk AUoway was dra\-iing nigh, 
WTiare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford. 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoored; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
AVTiare drunken Charlie brak's ueckbaue; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters faud the nnirdered bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
AYhare Mungo's niither hanged hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll : 
When, glimmering through the groaning trees 
Kirk AUoway seemed in a bleeze; 
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
WTiat dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny. we fear nae evil; 
AVi" usquebae, we "11 face the Devil I 
The swats sae reamed in Tammie"s noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonished. 
She ventured foi'ward on the light ; 
And. wow! Tam saw an unco sight! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
Xae cotillon brent new frae France. 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
At wiunock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Xick. in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim and large. 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl. 
Till roof and rafters a" did dirl. 
Coflins stood roimd like ojien presses. 
That shawed the dead in their last di'esses; 
And bj- some devilish cantrip sleight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light. — 
Bj' which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the halj- table. 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims : 
Twa span-lang. wee. unchristened bairns: 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape. 
Wi' his last gas]j his gab did gape: 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted; 
Five scymitars. wi' murder crusted; 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



471 



A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
A kiiLte a father's throat had mangled, 
VVliom his aiu son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi" inair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name wad be unlawtu". 

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, 
The mirth aud fun grew fast and furious : 
The' piper loud aud louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew : 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carliu swat and reekit, ^ 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark! 

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o" creeshie flanneu. 
Been snaw-white seventeeu-hunder linuen ! 
Thir breeks o'miue, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie hurdles ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll. 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping aud flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, 
"There was ae winsome wench and walie," 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Cari'ick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perished mony a bonnie boat, 
Aud shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie, she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('t\yas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power; 



To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
Aud how Tam stood, like aue bewitched, 
And thought his very een enriched; 
E'en Satan glowered, aud fldged fu' fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and main ; 
Till first a caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, "Weel done. Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcelj' had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assault their bj^ke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy lairin! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a hen-iu! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the kej^stane of the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss. 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the keystane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
Bi;t little wist she Maggie's mettle,- — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
But left behind her ain gray tail: 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read 
Ilk man and mother's son tak heed; 
Wliene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty-sarks run in j'our mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear: 
Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare. 

Robert Burns. 



A EAn^Y SUT^DAY AT A COUI^TRY Il^^JN^. 

W^pi was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained in 
^p the course of a journey by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; 
III' but I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn 
$ of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn ! He only who has 
had the luck to experience one can judge of my situation. The rain pattered against 
the casements ; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to 



472 THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 

the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had 
been placed comjDletely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my 
bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my 
sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more cal- 
culated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day.* The 
place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travelers and stable- 
boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck. 
Some half-drowned poultry were crowded together under a cart, among which was a 
miserable crest-fallen fowl, drenched out of all life and spirits, his drooping tail matted, 
as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back. Near 
the cart was a half-dozing cow chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, 
with wreaths of vapor rising from her reeking hide. A wall-eyed horse, tired of the 
loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain 
dripping on it from the eves. An unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hai'd by, 
uttered something every now and then between a bark and a yelp. Everything, in 
short, was comfortless and forlorn. 

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their way 
to church, Avith garments carefully lifted and dripping umbrellas. The bells ceased to 
toll, and the streets became silent. The day continued lowering and gloomy; the 
slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along ; there was no variety even in the 
rain ; it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter, patter, patter, excepting that now 
and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops 
upon a passing umbrella. It was quite refreshing ( if I may be allowed a hackneyed 
phrase of the day) when in the course of the morning a horn blew, and a stage-coach 
whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under 
cotton umbrellas, and seethed together and reekins: with steams of wet cloaks and 
overcoats. The sound brought out from their lurking places a crew of vagabond boys 
and vagabond dogs; but the bustle was transient; the coach again whirled on its way; 
and boy and dog all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, 
and the rain continued to rain on. 

Washington Ikving. 
.=0.-^-^0 <>=. 

BURIAL OF MOSES. 

" And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this 
dav." — DEUT. xxxiv. 6. 

Spf;Y Xebo's lonely momitaiii. Noiselessly as the daylight 

fi4^ On this side Jordan's wave, Comes when the night is done. 

In a vale iu the land of ]Moab. And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

There lies a lonely grave; Grows into the great sun; 

But no man built that sepulchre. 

And no man saw it e'er : Noiselessly as the spring-time 



For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
And laid the dead man there. 



Her crown of verdure \\eaves. 
And all the trees on all the hills 
Unfold their thousand leaves : 
That was the grandest funeral So without sound of music 

That ever passed on earth ; Or voice of them that wept, 

Yet no man heard the trampling. Silently down from the mountain's crown 

Or saw the train go forth : The great procession swept. 



DESCEIPTION AND N AERATION. 



473 



Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 

Out of his rocky eyrie 

Looked on the wondrous sight; 

Perchance the lion stalking 

Still shuns that hallowed spot; 

For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 




And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marbles drest, 

In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall. 

And the svv'eet choir sings, and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned hall. 

This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 

This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen 

On the deathless page truths half so sage 

As he ■v\ rote down for men. 



" Perchance the bald old eagle 
On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie 
Looked on the wondrous sight." 



But when the warrior dieth 

His comrades of the war. 

With arms reversed and muffled drums, 

Follow the funeral car : 

They show the banners taken ; 

They tell his battles won ; 

And after him lead his masterless steed. 

While peals the minute-gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 
Men lay the sage to rest, 



And had he not high honor?— 

The hillside for a pall ! 

To lie in state while angels wait, 

With stars for tapers tall ! 

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes. 

Over his bier to wave. 

And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 

To lav him in his grave ! — 



474 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



lu tb;it strange grave without a ]iani(\ 

■NATience his uncoffined clay 

Shall break again — O -wondrous thought'.- 

Before the judgmeut-daj', 

And stand, -with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod, 

And speak of the strife that won our life 

"With the incarnate Sou of God. 



O lonely tomb in ;Moab"s land I 

dark Beth-peor's hill ! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still; 

God hath his mysteries of grace, 

AVays that we cannot tell. 

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexa^idee. 



-5'e,-s-L- 





I^IPEESSIOI^S OF i^IAGAEA. 

E were at the foot of the American fall. I cotild see an immense 
torrent of water tearing headlono; down from some great height, but 
had no idea of shape, or situation, or anything but vague immensity. 
When I was seated in the little ferry-boat, and was crossing the 
swollen I'iver immediately before both cataracts, I began to feel what 
it was; but I was in a manner stunned, and unable to comprehend 
the vastness of the scene. It was not until I came on Table Rock, 
and looked — Great Heaven, on what a fall of bright, green water ! — that 
it came upon me in its full might and majesty. Then, when I felt how 
near to my Creator I was standing, the first effect and the enduring 
one — instant and lasting — of the tremendous spectacle, was peace. Peace of mind, 
tranquility, calm recollections of the dead, great thoughts of eternal rest and happiness ; 
nothing of gloom or terror. Niagara was at once stamped upon my heart, an image 
of beauty ; to remain there, changeless and indelible, until its pulses cease to beat forever. 
Oh, how the strife and trouble of daily life receded from my view and lessened in 
the distance, during the memorable days we passed on that enchanted ground ! What 
voices spoke from out the thundering water; what faces, faded from earth, looked out 
upon me from its gleaming depths; what heavenly promise glistened in those angels* 
tears, the drops of many hues, that showered around, and twined themselves about the 
gorgeous arches which the changing rainbows made ! 

I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian side, whither I had gone at 
first. I never crossed the river again ; for I knew there were people on the other 
shore, and in such a place it is natural to shun strange compan3\ Ts wander to 
and fro all day, and see the cataracts from all points of view; to stand upon the 
edge of the great Horseshoe Fall, marking the hurried water gathering strength as 
it approached the verge, yet seeming, too, to pause before it shot into the gulf below; 
to gaze from the river's level up at the torrent as it came streaming down; to climb 
the neighboring heights and watch it through the trees, and see the wreathing water in 
the rapids hurrying on to take its fearful i)lunge ; to linger in the shadow of the 
solemn rocks three miles below, watching the river, as, stirred by no visible cause, it 
heaved and eddied and awoke the echoes, being troubled yet, far down beneath the 
surface, by its giant leap ; to have Niagara before me, lighted by the sun and by 
the moon, red in the day's decline, and gray as evening slowly fell upon it ; to 
look upon it every day, and wake up in the night and hear its ceaseless voice, — 
this was enough. 



DESCEIPTION AND NARRATION. 



475 



I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll and leap, and roar 
and tumble, all day long; still are the rainbows spanning them, a hundred feet below. 
Still, when the sun is on them, do they shine and glow like molten gold. Still, when 
the day is gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like the front of 
a great chalk-cliff, or roll down the rock like dense white smoke. But always does 
the mighty stream appear to die as it comes down, and always from its unfathomable 
grave arises that tremendous ghost of spray and mist which is never laid, — which 
has haunted this place with the same dread solemnity since darkness brooded on 
the deep, and that first flood before the deluge — light — came rushing on creation at 
the word of God. 

Charles Dickens. 



MONEY MITSK. 



^^H, the buxom girls that helped the hoj'S — 
^1^ The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 



oys 

^^ As they stripped the husks with rustling fold 
A From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold. 

By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, 
And the gleams that showed fantastic holes 
In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, 
From the hermit glim set up within; 

By the rarer light in girlish eyes 
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies, 
I hear the laugh when tlie ear is red, 
I see the blush with the forfeit paid. 

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist. 
The cider cup that the girls have kissed. 
And I see the fiddler tlirough the dusk 
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk! " 

The boys and girls in a double row 
AV'ait face to face till the magic bow 
Shall whip the time from the violin, 
And the merry pidse of the feet begin. 

In shirt of check, and tallow"ed hair. 
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
Like MoseS' basket stranded there 

Ou the brink of Father Nile. 
He feels the fiddle's slender neck, 
Picks out the notes with thrum and check, 
And times the tune with nod and beck, 

And thinks it a weary while. 
All ready! Now he gives the call, 
Cries, "Honor to the ladies! " All 
The jolly tides of laughter fall 

And ebb in a happy smUe. 

D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, 
"First couple join right hands and swing! " 
As light as any blue-bird's wing 

"Swing once and a half times round." 



Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — 
Calico gown and stockings new. 
And tinted eyes tliat tell you true. 

Dance all to the dancing sound. 

She flits about big Moses Brown, 
Who holds her hands to keep her down 
And thinks her hair a golden crown 

And his heart turns over once ! 
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, 
It gives a second somerset! 
He means to win the maiden yet, 

Alas for the awkward dunce ! 

" Your stoga boot has crushed my toe ! " 
" I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe! " 
"You clumsy fellow! " "Pass below!" 

And the first pair dance apart. 
Then " Forward six! " advance, reti-eat, 
Like midges gay in sunbeam street; 
'Tis Money Musk by merry feet 

And the Money Musk by heart ! 

" Three-quarters round your partner swing! " 
"Across the set! " The rafters ring. 
The girls and boys have taken wing 

And have brought their roses out! 
'Tis "Forward six! " with rustic grace, 
Ah, rarer far than — " Swing to place! " — 
Than golden clouds of old point lace 

They bring the dance about. 

Then clasping hands all — "Right and left! " 
All swiftly weave the measure deft 
Across the woof in loving weft 

And the Money Musk is done ! 
Oh, dancers of the rustling husk. 
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growinar dusk. 
Good-night, for aye to Money Musk, 

For the heavy march begun ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



476 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 

' HAATE fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam, ''Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said. 

I That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream. All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York;" 

Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest. Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he 
From the pillow of stone to the blue of the blest, read, 

And the angels descending to dwell with us While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 

here, And politelj- picked up the key-note with a fork; 

"Old Hundred," and "'Corinth,"' and "China,"' And the vicious old viol went growling along 

and "Mear." At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. 




"^\^^ile the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 
And politely picked up the key-note with a fork." 



All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod. 

That those breaths can blow open to heaven and 

God! 
Ah, "Silver Sti-eet'" flows by a bright shining road,— 
Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed. — 
But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned 

choir, 
To the ffirl that sang alto — the girl that sang air! 



Oh. I need not a wing — bid no genii come 

With a wonderful web from Aralnan loom, 

To bear me again up the river of Time. 

"Wiien the world was in rhythm, and life was its 

rhj'me — 
AMiere the streams of the years flowed so noiseless 

and narrow. 
That across it there floated the song of the sparrow — 



DESCRIPTION AND NAERATION. 



477 



For a sprig of green caraway carries me tliere, 
To the old village church and the old village choir, 
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, 
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they 



sung, 



Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
Seemed the rafters of gold in God"s temple begun! 

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, 
Who followed by scent, till he ran the tune down; 



And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than 

grace, 
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, 
And where " Coronation" exultingly flows. 
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes ! 

To the land of the leal they have gone with their song, 
Where the chou- and the chorus together belong. 
Oh be lifted, ye gates I Let me hear them again — 
Blessed song, blessed singei-s ! forever. Amen ! 

Benjamin F. Taylok. 




THE OLD HOME. 

SEE it now, the same unchanging spot, 
The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, 
The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 
The flat pale house, the knocker-garnished door. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



-gJ-O^C^-'g- 



THE POWER OE HABIT. 



REMEMBEK once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gen- 
tleman, "What river is that, sir?" "That," he said, "is Niagara river." 
"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I, "bright and fair and glassy; how 
far off are the rapids?" "Only a mile or two," was the reply. "Is it pos- 
I sible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which 
it must show near to the Falls?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found 
it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bsuk on 
that Niagara river : it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the 
bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to the enjoyment. 
30 



478 



THE GOLDEISr TREASURY. 



Down the stream you glide, oars, sails- and helm in proper trim, and you set 
out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, 
"Young men, ahoy!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you." "Ha! ha! 
we have heard of the rapids, but we are not such fools as to get there. If we 
o-o too fast, then we shall up with the helm and steer for the shore; we will set the 
mast in the socket, hoist the sail and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be 
alarmed — there is no danger." 

"Young men, ahoy there!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you!" 
"Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the 
future ! No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will 
enjo}' life while we ma}" ; Avill catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment ; time 
enough to steer out of danger when we are saihng swiftly with the current." 

"Young men, ahoy!" "What is it?" "Beware! Beware! The rapids are 
below you ! " Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass 
that point ! Up with the helm ! Now turn ! Pull hard ! quick ! quick ! quick ! pull 
for your lives ! pull till the blood starts from the nostrils, and the veins stand like 
whip-cords upon your brows ! Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail ! — ah ! ah ! 
it is too late ! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go. 

Thousands go over the rapids every year through the power of habit, crying 
all the while, "When I find out that it is injuring me I will give it up ! " 

John B. Gough. 



THE YILLAG-E BLACKSMITH. 



llNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 
sss^ The village smithy stands : 
'tf*' The smith, a mighty man is he, 
•H. "With large and sinewj^ hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp and black and long; 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, — 

He earns whatever he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out. from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
"\Mien the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school. 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from the threshing-floor. 



He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys; 
He hears the i>arson pray and preach ; 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mothei's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies : 
And with his hard, rough hand be wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. 

Onward through life he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begin. 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done. 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be Avrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



DESCRIPTION AND NABRATION. 



479 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 



She Assyriau came down like the wolf on the 

M fold, 

"'^^ And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 

J4 gold ; 

And the sheen of theu- spears was like stars on the 

sea, 
When the blue wave roUs nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 

flown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered aud strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 



Aud the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
Aud theu- hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping laj^ white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

Aud there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashm- are loud in their wail. 
And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, uiismote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snosv in the glance of the Lord! 

Lord Byron. 




y^jif^ttf 



THE NEW-ENG-LAND SCHOOL. 



,|HE morning came, I reached the classic hall ; 

A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall ; 

Beneath its hands a printed line I i-ead : 

Youth is Life's seeu-time; so the clock-face 
said. 
Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed, — 
Sowed — their wild oats, and reaped as they had 

sowed. 
How all comes back! the upward slanting floor — 
The masters' thrones that flank the centi-al door — 
The long, outstretching alleys that divide 
The rows of desks that stand on either side — 



The staring boys, a face to every desk. 

Bright, dull, pale, blooming, coininou. picturesque. 

Grave is the master's look; his forehead wears 

Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares; 

Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 

His most of all whose kingdom is a school. 

Supreme he sits; before the awful frown 

That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down; 

Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 

At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



480 



THE GOLDEX TKEASURY. 



THE TEMPEST. 



I|E were crowded in the cabin, 
..Pfcs J^ot a soul would dare to sleep, — 
^^^ It was midnight on the waters 
^f^^ And a storm was on the deep. 

"T is a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, -'Cut away the mast! " 

So we shuddered there in silence,— 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

"While the hungry sea was roaring. 
And the breakers talked with Death. 



As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy in his pra_yers, 
"We are lost! " the captain shouted, 

As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered. 

As she took his icy hand, 
"Is n"t God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land? " 

Then we kissed the little maiden. 

And we spoke in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor, 

When the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields. 



-S'^cr^ 




THE EVENING CLOUD. 



^^f CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun : 
^lill^ A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; 
'''ff^ Long had I watched the glory moving on, 
li O'ev the still radiance of tlie lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow — 
Even in its very motion there was rest ; 
AVhile every breath of eve that chanced to blow 
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west : — 



Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 
And. by the breath of Mercy, made to roll 
Eight onward to the golden gates of heaven; 
A\Tiere, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. (Christopher North) . 



;r-.Se^?- 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

ilfelFE bears us on like the current of a mighty river. Our boat at first glides 



down the narrow channel, through the playful niurmurings of the little brook 
and the windings of its grassy borders. The trees shed their blossoms over 
our young heads ; the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young 
hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around 
us;— but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty. Our course 




DESCEIPTION AND NAEEATION. 



481 



in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, amid objects more striking 
and magnificent. We are animated by the moving pictures of enjoyment and industry 
passing before us; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and made 
miserable by some equally short-lived disappointment. But our energy and our depres- 
sion are both in vain-. The stream bears us on, and our joys and griefs are alike 
left behind us. 

We may be shipwrecked — we cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the 
river hastens to its home, till the roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of 
the waves is beneath our feet, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are 
lifted up around us, and we take our leave of earth and its inhabitants, until of our 
further voyage there is no witness save the Infinite and Eternal. 

Re&inald Heber. 



LUCY GRAY. 



|FT I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 
Aud when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see, at break of da}'. 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more he seen. 

"To-night will be a stornw night, — 
You to the town must go; 
And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

"That, father! will I gladly do; 

"T is scarcely afternoon,— 

The minster-clock has just struck two. 

And yonder is the moon ! " 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet dispej-se the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
But never reached the town. 



The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their duur. 

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet; " — 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The pi'int of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge. 
And by the long stone wall; 

And then an open field they crossed ; 
The marks were still the same ; 
The}' tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

Thej' followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 

— ^Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along. 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 



482 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



THE SXOAV-STORM. 



'IHpRIS a fearful night in the winter-time, 
^^ As cold as it ever can be ; 



m 



Of the waves on an augiy sea ; 




curbs gone." 



The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out ^\ith its wings to-night; 
And over the sky. from south to north. 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
In the strength of a might}' glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day. 

As it never came down before, 
And over the hills at suuset lay 

Some t^vo or three feet or more : 
The fence was lost, and the waU of stone : 
ITie windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone; 
The hay-stack had grown to a mountain -lift: 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of show. 

"\Miile the air grows sharp and chill. 
And the warning roar of a fearful blow 

Is heard on the distant hill : 
And the Norther! See. on the mountain-peak. 
In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek 1 
He shouts on the plain. Ho-ho I ho-ho ! 
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow. 

And on-owls with a savage will. 



Such a night as this to be found abroad 

In the di'ifts and the freezing air! 
Sits a shivering dog in a field by the road, 

AVith the snow in his shaggy hair : 
He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls; 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls; 
Then, crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet; 

Praj', what does the dog do there? 

A farmer came from the village plain, 

But he lost the traveled waj-; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew. 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew; 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her sti'uggles floundered down, 

AATiere a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 

She plunged in the drifting snow. 
While her master urged, till his breath grew short. 

With a word and a gentle blow; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might; 




"The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 
And the beautiful Morgan brown." 



So he wallowed back to his half-fUled sleigh. 
And strove to shelter himself till day. 
With his coat and the buffalo. 



DESCEIPTlOJSr AND NAKEATION. 



483 



He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need; 
For awhile he strives with a wistful cry, 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 

And whines when he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, — 
'Tis the hour of midnight, past; 

The old trees writhe and bend no more 
In the whirl of the rushing blast; 

The silent moon, with her peaceful light, 

Looks down on the hills with suow all white ; 



And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
Of the blasted pine and the ghostly stump. 
Afar on the plain are cast. 

But, cold and dead, by the hidden log 

Are they who came from the town, — 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog. 

And his beautiful Morgan brown, — 
In the wide snow desert, far and grand. 
With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand : 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



CASABIANCA. 

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of 
the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had beeii abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, 
when the flames had reached the powder. | 



JHE boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled. 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on ; he would not go 

AVithout his father's word ; 
The father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, " Say, father, say. 

If yet my task be done ! " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father! " once again he cried, 

"If I may yet be gone! " 
And but the booming shots replied. 

And fast the flames rolled on. 



Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair. 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father! must 1 stay? " 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 

The wreathing fii-es made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high. 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound ; 

The boy, — Oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds, that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea, — 

With shroud and mast and pennon fair. 
That well had borne their part, — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



sfe. 



THE OLD CANOE. 



pHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
. And the waters below look dark and deep, 

^i^ Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
V Leans gloomily over the murky tide, 

Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank. 

And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; 

Wliere the shadow is heavy the whole day through. 

Lies at its moorings the old canoe. 



The useless paddles are idly dropped. 

Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing, one o'er one, 

Tiike the folded hands when the work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider stretches his silvery screen. 

And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo." 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 



484 



THE GOLDEN ITIEASOIY. 



The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Eots slowly away in its living grave, 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, 

Hiding the mouldering dust away, 

Like the haud that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead and still — 

But the light wind plays \\ith the boat at will. 

And lazily in and out again 

It floats the length of its rustj'^ chain, 

Like the weary march of the hands of time, 

That meet and part at the noontide chime. 

And the shoi-e is kissed at each turn anew 

By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Ob, many a time, mth a careless hand, 

I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 



And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 
WTiere the whuis are wild and the eddies are thick. 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side. 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces and boats were two 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But uow. as I lean o'er the crumbling side. 

And look below in the sluggish tide, 

The face that I see there is graver groM-n, 

And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone. 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown famUiar with sterner things. 

But I love to think of the hours that flew 

As I rocked \\-here the whirls their white spray threw. 

Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew. 

O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 

Emily R. Page. 



-^^3(5- 




A GREYPORT LEG-EKD. 



1^1 HEY ran through the streets of the seaport town ; 
^^ They peered from the decks of the ships that la-: 
'^r- Tlie cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
J^ Was never as cold or white as thev. 
A "Ho. Starbuckand Pinckney and Tenterden! 
^ Run for your shallops, gather your men. 

Scatter vour boats on the lower bay.'' 



Good cause for fear! In the thick midday 

Tlie hulk that lay by the rotting pier. 

Filled with the children in happy play. 

Parted its moorings, and drifted clear. — 
Drifted clear beyond reach or call. — 
Thirteen children they were in all. — 
All adrift in the lower bay! 



DESCEIPTION AND NARRATION. 



485 



Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! 

She will not float till the turDiug tide!" 

Said his wife, "My darling will hem- my call. 

Whether in sea or heaven she bide." 
And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry. 
Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 

The fog drove down on each laboring crew, 
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
There was not a sound but the breath they drew. 
And the lap of water and creak of oar; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, 
But not from the lips that had gone before. 



They come no more. But they tell the tale, 

That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef. 

The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; 

For the signal they know wjU bring relief: 
For the voices of children, still at play 
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 
Through channels whose waters never fail. 

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 

A theme for a poet's idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 

VVe hear from the misty troubled shore 

The voice of the children gone before. 

Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 

Bret Hakte. 



"O— 4^-^=0.. — 



THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. 



^IHglTHE and long as the serpent train, 
(^iiii Springing and clinging from tree to tree, 
"^X^ Now darting upward, now down again, 
¥ With a twist and a twirl that are strange 
j see; 

Never took serpent a deadlier hold. 
Never the cougar a wilder spring. 
Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, 
Spanning the beech with the condor's wing. 

Yet no foe that we fear to seek, — 

The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ; 

Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 
As ever on lover's breast found jjlace ; 



On thy waving ti-ain is a playful hold 

Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; 
While a maiden sits in thj^ drooping fold, 
to And swings and sings in the noonday shade ! 

giant strange of om- Southern woods ! 

I dream of thee still in the well-known spot. 
Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods. 
And the Northern forest beholds thee not; 

1 think of thee still witti a sweet regret. 

As the cordage yields to my playful grasp, — 
Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? 
Does the maiden still s\\ iug in thy giant clasp? 
William Gilmore Simms. 



MOONLIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE. 



ll^EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black 

^M wall of the forest, 

'tSSc' Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
tl On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a 
tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 

TJke the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of 
the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their pray- 
ers and confessions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Car- 
thusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
shadows and night-dews. 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the 
magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 



As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of 

the oak-trees. 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure- 
less prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and Infinite 

numbers. 
Over her head thfe stars, the thoughts of God in the 

heavens. 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel 

and worship. 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of 

that temple. 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 

" Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the 

fire-flies. 
Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my 

beloved! 



486 



THE GOLDEIS^ TREASURY. 



Art thou so near viuto me, and yet I cannot behold 
thee? 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thj' voice does not 
reach me? 

Ah! ho^\' often thy feet have trod this path to the 
prairie I 

Ah ! how often thine eyes have lool^ed on the wood- 
lands around me ! 

Ah! how often beneath this oali, retm-ning from 
labor, 

T'liou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in 
thy slumbers. 



"WTien shall these eyes behold, these ai-ms be folded 
about thee? " 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor\NiU 
sounded 

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the 
neighboring thickets. 

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into 
silence. 

"•Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular cav- 
erns of dai-kness; 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 
" To-morrow! " 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 




" O blithely shines the bonny sun 
Upon the Isle of May." 



WE 'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 



•e^ 



BLITHELY shines the bonny sun 

Upon the Isle of May, 
And blithely comes the inorning tide 

Into St. Andrew's Bay. 
Then up. gudeman. the breeze is fair. 

And up, my braw bairns three ; 
There's goud in yonder bonnj' boat 



That sails sae weel the sea! 
AMien haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, 

An' mussels leave the shore. 
AMien oysters climb up Ber^vick Law, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
AVe '11 go to sea no more. 



DESCEIPTIOISr AND NAEEATION. 



4«( 



I "ve seen the waves as blue as air, 

I 've seen them green as grass ; 
But I never feared their heaving yet, 

From Grangemouth to the Bass. 
I 've seen the sea as black as pitch, 

I 've seen it white as snow ; 
But I never feared its foaming j^et, 
Though the winds blew high or low. 
"iVhen squalls capsize our wooden walls. 

When the French ride at the Norc. 
When Leith meets Aberdom- half way. 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

I never liked the landsman's life, 

The earth is aye the same ; 
Gie me the ocean for my dower, 

My vessel for my hame. 
Gie me the fields that no man plows, 

The farm that pays no fee ; 
Gie me the bonny fish that glance 

So gladly through the sea. 



When sails hang flapping on the masts 
While through the waves we snore. 

When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed. 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No moi-e. 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 

The breezes softly blaw ; 
The gudemau has the lines on boai'd, — 

A\\a, my bairns, awa ! 
An' ye be back by gloamin' gray. 

An' bright the iire will low, 
An' in your tales and sangs we '11 tell 
How weel the boat ye row. 
When life's last sun gaes feebly down. 

An' death comes to our door. 
When a' the world 's a dream to us. 
We "11 go to sea no more, — 

No more. 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

Miss Oorbett. 



-^=3-^=1- 






THE WRECKED SHIP. 



&_ Q ., , 

11 



ND now, lashed on by destiny severe. 
With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew 

near ! 
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death. 
Hell yawrrs, rocks rise, and breakers roar be- 
neath ! 



In vain the cords and axes are prei)ared. 
For now the audacious seas insult the yard; 
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade. 
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge to heaven she flies, 
ITer shattered top half buried in the skies, 
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground. 
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps re- 
sound ! 



Her giant hulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels. 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes. 
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. 
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock! 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes 
In wild despair, while yet another stroke. 
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak : 
Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
The lurking demons of destruction dwell. 
At length, asunder torn, her frame divides, 
And crashing spreads in ruin o"er the tides. 

William Falconer. 



THE PILOT. 



I^OHN MAYNAED was well known in the lake district as a God-fearinsr, honest and 
'kPij intelligent pilot. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One sum- 
^ mer afternoon — at that time those steamers seldom carried boats — smoke was seen 
ascending from below, and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see 
what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and 
said, " Captain, the ship is on fire." Then "Fire! fire! fire!" resounded on shipboard. 
All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. 
There were large quantities of resin and tar on board, and it was found useless to 
attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, 



488 THE G0LDE:N TREASURY. 

"How far are we from Buffalo?" "Seven miles." "How long before we can 
reach there?" "Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." " Is there 
any danger? " "Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go forward, if you would 
save your lives ! ' ' 

Passengers and crew — men, women and children — crowded the foi"ward part of 
the ship. John ]\Ia3"nard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; 
clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet: "John INIaynard ! " 
"Aye, aye, sir!" "Are you at the helm?" " Aj-e, aye, sir!" "How does she 
head? " " Southeast by east, sir." " Head her southeast and run her on shore," said 
the captain. 

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out: 
"John Maynard ! " The response came feebly this time, "Aye, aye, sir!" "Can 
you hold on five minutes longer, John? " he said. "By God's help, I will." 

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon 
the stanchion, and his teeth set ; with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a 
rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard 
dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God. 

JOHX B. GOUGH. 



THE BURIsTIIs^G OF CHICAGO. 

"Si FOUND a Rome of common clay." imperial And dmnb Dismay walked hand in hand with frozen- 

1^ Caesar cried ; eyed Despair ! 

W "I left a Rome of marble!"" Xo other Rome Chicago vanished in a cloud — the towers were 

4> beside! storms of sleet. 

The ages \\Tote their autographs along the sculptured Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral 

stone — street! 

The golden eagles flew abroad - Augustan splendors ^j^^ ^^.^^^ ^^^^.^^^ ^^^ between the days ! The ashen 

^^one- hoar-frost fell, 

They made a Roman of the world ! They trailed the ^^ .^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^..^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ g^^^g ^^ j^^H^ 

classic robe, ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ molten billows break the adamantine 

And flung the Latin toga around the naked globe ! hnr- 

And roll the smoke of torment up to smother out the 

•■ I found Chicago wood and claj',"' a mightier Kaiser stars. 

gjjjj The low, dull growl of powder-blasts just dotted off 

Then flung upon the sleeping mart his roj-al robes of ™^ "^'^' 

j.g^ As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that 

And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monument might have been. 

and spire '^^^ thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents 

Put on the crimson livery of dreadful Kaiser Fire! dumb; 

The stately piles of polished stone were shattered into 'i'^e trumpet"s clangor died away a wild bee's drowsy 

sand. li""^ 

And madly drove the dread simoon, and snowed them And breakers beat the empt\' world that rumbled like 

on the land! a drum. 

And rained them till the sea was red, and scorched the O cities of the Silent Land! O Graceland and Rose- 
wings of prayer! hill! 

Like thistle-down ten thousand homes went drifting Xo tombs without their tenantr\-? 'Jlie pale host 

tlii-ough the air. sleeping still? 



DESCEIPTION AISTD XAERATION. 4<S9 

Your marble thresholds dawniug red with holocanstal And Euth and Rachel, pale and brave, in silence 

glare, walked beside; 

As if the Waking Angel's foot were set upon the stair! Those Bible girls of Judah's day did make that day 

sublime — 
But ah, the hunmn multitudes that marched before ^eave life but them, no other loss can ever bankrupt 
the flame — ,„. , 

Time ! 
As 'mid the Red Sea's wavy walls the ancient people 

canie ! Men stood and saw their all caught up in chariots of 
Behind, the rattling chariots ! the Pharaoh of Fire ! liame 

TTie rallying volley of the whips, the jarring of the No mantle falling from the sky they ever thought to 

tire! — claim. 



" Chicago vanished in a cloud." 

Looked round, and saw the homeless world as dismal And emptA'-handed as the dead, they turned away and 

asapyrel— smiied. 

Looked up. and saw God's blessed Blue a firmament And bore a stranger's household gods and saved a 

so dire! stranger's child ! 

As in the days of burning Troy, when- Virgil's hero What valor brightened into shape, like statues in a 

lied. hiill. 

So gray and trembling pilgrims found some younger "When on their dusky panoply the blazing torches fall. 

feet instead, Stood l)ravely out. and saw the world spj-cad wings of 
'JTiat bore them through the wilderness with bold fiery flight. 

elastic sti-ide. And not a trinket of a star to crown disastered night! 

Ben.tamin F. Taylor. 



490 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 




EXECUTIOlSr OF MAET QUEEIsr OF SCOTS. 

1 Mary Queen of Scots, having given great offence to her subjects, was deprived of her throne and imprisoned in Lochleven Castle. 

Escaping thence she took refuge in Kngland, supposing that she would be kindly treated by her cousin Elizabeth, then the reigning 

queen. She had, however, offended the Queen of England by setting up a claim to the English throne, on t!ie ground of the illegitimacy of 

Elizabeth, who was the daughter of Anne Boleyn. Instead, therefore, of finding protection and hospitality, she was made a prisoner, 

'-Ji^^Ui.' • '^"'■^ continued in captivity during nineteen years. In 15S7, she Avas beheaded at Fotlieringay Castle, on a 

2^ •^>fT rl?-?* Jv charge of beinar concerned in a conspiracv, the obiect of ■which ■w'as to take the life of Elizabeth.] 

^?ijSr^^^f^ ^ " 1 .. J 

ARY heard the announcement of her sentence with a serenity of coun- 
tenance and dignity of manner which awed and affected the beholders ; 
but her attendants burst into tears and lamentations. After a longr and 
fervent prayer, the queen was called to supper. She ate sparingly; and 
before she rose from the table, drank to all her servants; asking, at 
the same time, forgiveness of them, if she had ever spoken or acted 
toward them unldndly. 

The last night of Mary's life was sj)ent in the ai'rangement of her 
domestic affairs, the writing of her will and of three letters, and in 
exercises of devotion. In the retirement of her closet, with her two 
maids, she prayed and read alternately; and sought for support and com- 
fort in reading the passion of Christ. About four she i-etired to rest ; 
but it was observed that she did not sleep. Her lips were in constant 
motion, and her mind, seemed absorbed in prayer. At the first break of 
day her household assembled around her. She read to them her will, distributed among 
them her clothes and money, and bade them adieu, kissing the women and giving her hand 
to kiss to the men. ^Veeping, they followed her into her oratory, where she took her 
place in front of the altar; they knelt down and prayed behind her. 

In the midst of the great hall of the castle had been raised a scaffold covered with 
black ser^e, and surrounded with a low railing. Before eio;bt a message was sent to the 
queen, who replied that she Avould be ready in half an hour. At that time the sheriff 
entered the orator}', and ]\Iary arose, taking the crucifix from the altar in her right and 
carrying her prayer-book in her left hand. Her servants were forbidden to follow; they 
insisted; but the queen bade them be content: and, turning, gave them her blessing. 
They received it on their knees, some kissing her hands, others her mantle. The door 
closed; and the burst of lamentation from those within resounded through the hall. 

Mary was now joined by the earls and her keepers, and, descending the staircase, 
found at the foot Melville, the steward of her household, who, for several weeks, had 
been excluded from her presence. " Good Melville," said Mar}', "I pray thee report 
that I die a true woman to my religion, to Scotland, and to France. May God forgive 
them that have long thirsted for my blood as the hart does for the brook of water. 
Commend me to my son ; and tell him that I have done nothing prejudicial to the 
dignity or independence of his crown." She made a last request, that her seiwants might 
be present at her death ; but the Earl of Kent objected. When she asked with vehemence, 
" Am I not the cousin to your queen, a descendant of the blood royal of Henry YTl., a 
named queen of France, and the anointed Queen of Scotland?" 

It was then resolved to admit four of her men and two of her women servants. She 
selected her steward, ph^^sician, apothecary, and surgeon, with her two maids. Mary wore 
the richest of her dresses, that which was appropriate to the rank of a queen-dowager. Her 



DESCKIPTION AND NAKRATIOJST. 491 

,«ttep was firm and her countenance cheerful. She bore without shrinking the gaze of the 
spectators, and the sight of the scaffold and block and the executioner; and advanced 
into the hall with that grace and majesty which she had so often displayed in her happier 
days, and in the palace of her fathers. To aid her, as she mounted the scaffold, Paulet 
offered his arm. " I thank you, sir," said Mary; "it is the last trouble I shall give you, 
and the most acceptable service you have ever rendered me." 

The queea seated herself on a stool which was prepared for her; and in an audible 
voice addressed the assembly. She said that she pardoned from her heart all her enemies. 
She then repeated with a loud voice, and in the Latin language, passages from the Book of 
Psalms; and a prayer in French, in which she begged of God to pardon her sins, declai-ed 
that she forgave her enemies, and protested that she was ignorant of ever consenting in 
wish or deed to the death of her English sister. She then prayed in English for Christ's 
afflicted church, for her son James, and for Queen Elizabeth, and, in conclusion, holding 
up the crucifix, exclaimed, " As thy arms, O God, were stretched out upon the cross, so 
receive me unto the arms of thy mercy and forgive my sins." 

"Madam," said the Earl of Kent, "you had better leave such popish trumperies, 
and bear him in your heart." She replied, "I cannot hold in my hand the represen- 
tation of his sufferings but I must at the same time bear him in my heart." When 
her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their mistress, the executioners, fearing the 
loss of their usual perquisites, hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated; but instantly 
submitted to their rudeness, observing to the earls, with a smile, that she was not 
accustomed to employ such grooms, or to undress in the presence of so numerous a 
company. Her servants, at the sight of their sovereign in this lamentable state, could 
not suppress their feelings ; but Mary, putting her finger to her lips, commanded 
silence, gave them her blessing, and solicited their prayers. 

One of her maids, taking from her a handkerchief edged with gold, pinned it over 
her eyes ; the executioners, holding her by the arms, led her to the block ; and the 
queen, kneeling down, said repeatedly, with a firm voice, " Into thy hands, O Lord, I 
commend my spirit." But the sobs and groans of the spectators disconcerted the 
headsman. He trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound in the lower part 
of the skull. The queen remained motionless ; and at the third stroke her head was 
severed from her body. The executioner held it up, and cried as usual, " God save 
Queen Elizabeth." " So perish all her enemies ! " subjoined the Dean of Peterborough. 
"So perish all the enemies of the gospel!" exclaimed, in a still louder tone, the fan- 
atical Earl of Kent. Not a voice was heard to cry Amen. Party feeling was absorbed 
in pity. 

John Lingard. 



A GLASS OF COLD WATER 

|HEEE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children ? Not in the 
simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded 
with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth vour Father in heaven pre- 
pare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy 




492 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play; there God bi'ews it. AiiJ 
down, low down, in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; anu 
hio"h upon the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; 
where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide 
wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar; the chorus sweeping 
the march of God: there he brews it — that beverage of life and health-giving water. And 
everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain; 
shinino- in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden 
veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze around the midnight moon. Sporting in the 
cataract ; sleeping in the glacier ; dancing in the hail shower ; folding its bright snow cur- 
tains softly about the wintry world, and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone 
of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; 
all checkered over with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it 
is beautiful, that life-giving water ; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not 
madness and murder ; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans 
weep no burning tears in its depth; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it 
in the words of eternal despair. Speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's 
drink, alchohol ! 



BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 



lip^.RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good 
•^ and stout, 

■j'li^ For things at home are crossways, and Betsy 
i ?T and I are out, — 

1 We who have worked together so long as man 

I and wife 

1 Must pull in single harness the rest of our unfral 
life. 

"What is the matter," says yon? I swan ifs hard to 

tell! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very 

well ; 
I have no other woman — she has no other man; 
Onlv we've lived together as long as ever we can. 



The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed 
Was something conoerniug heaven — a difference in 

our creed ; 
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing 

at tea — 
And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we 

couldn't agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a 

cow ; 
She had kicked the bucket for certain — the question 

was onlj' — How? 
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; 
And when we were done a-talkin\ we both of us was 

mad. 



So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked 

with me; 
And we've agreed together that we can never agree ; 
Not that we've catched each other in anj"^ terrible 

crime ; 
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a 

time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had. for a start; 
Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two 

apart ; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone. 
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her 

own. 



And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. 
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a 

bowl ; 
And slie said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any 

soul. 

And so the thing kept workin'. and all the self-same 

way ; 
Always somethin' to arg'e, and something sharp to 

say, — 
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o" dozen 

strong. 
And lent their kindest sarvice to help tlie thing along. 



DESCRIPTION AND NAKRATION. 493 

And there have been days together— and many a When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, per- 

vveary week — haps. 

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other 

pj-oud to speak ; chaps ; 

And 1 have been thiukiu" and thiakin', the whole of And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down, 

the summer and fall. And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in 

If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't town. 

at all. 

Once when I had a fever — I wont forget it soon — 

And so I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked j ^^.^g ^g hot as a basted turkey, and crazy as a loon— 

with me ; Never an hour went by me when she was out of 

And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; sicht • 

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall gi^g nm-sed me true and tender, and stuck to me day 

be mine ; and night. 
And I'll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to 

gjo.jj_ And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen 

clean, 

Write on the paper, lawyer— the very first para- jjer house and kitchen was as tidy as any I ever seen, 

graph — And I don't complain of Betsy or anj-^ of her acts. 

Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her hah; Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other 

For she has helped to earn it, through many a wearj- facts. 

day. 
And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to- 
pay, "iglit, 

And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all 

Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive rio-ht; 

and roam, And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a tradin' man I 

But women are wretched critters unless they have know — 

a home. And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the 

And I have always determined, and never failed to world I'll o-o. 

say, 

That Betsy never should v/ant a home, if I was taken And one thmg put in the paper, that tirst to me didn't 

away. occur; 

That when I'm dead at last she will bring me back to 

There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' jjgj.^ 

tol Table pay^ And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, 

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,— "v^rhen she and I was happy, before we quarreled so. 
Safe in the hands of good men. and easy to get at; 

Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by 

me; 

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then 

much ; agree ; 

Yes. divorce is cheap, sir. but I take no stock in such; And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it 

True and fair I married her. when she was blithe and queer 

young. If we loved each other the better because we've 

And Betsy, was always good to me, exceptin' with her quarreled here. 

tongue. Will. M. Carleton. 



BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 

IP'VE brought back the paper, lawyer, and fetched So I came here on the business,— only a word to snv— 

^ tne parson nere, (Caleb is staking pea-vines, and couldn't come to- 

To see that things are regular, and settled up fair ■, ^ , 

tind clGtir * 

For I've been talking with Caleb, and Caleb has '^"^^ '^ *^" y°" ^"<^ P^'"^"" ^'^'''' *^^ ''''^^^ "^=^°^"^ 

with me. our mind; 

And the 'mount of it is we're minded to try once more So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer— you see it wasn't 

to agree. signed. 
31 



494 THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 

Aud now if parson is readj-. Ill wallcwith him toward He brought me the pen at hist; I felt a siukin", and he 

home ; Looked as he did with the agnr in the spring of sixtj- 

I want to thank him for something, "twas kind of him three ; 

to come; 'Twas then you dropped in, pai'son, 'twasn't much 

He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by us firm and that was said. 

true ; '-Little children, love one another," but the thing was 

We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, if he'd killed stone dead. 

been a lawyer too. 

I should like to make confession; not that I'm going- 
There! — how good the sun feels, and the grass, and to say 

blowin' trees, The fault was all on my side, that never ^^■as my way. 

Something about them lawyers makes me feel fit to But it maj'be true that women — tho' how 'tis I can't 

freeze ; see — 

I wasn't bound to state particular to that man Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know how 

But it's right you should know, parson, about our to be. 



change of plan. 



Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it wasn't 



And I've thought, and so has Caleb, though maj^be we 
are wrong, 



We'd been some days a waverin' a little, Caleb and pouiin , 

And the church a laborin' with us, 'twas worse than 

me, . ' 

And wished the hateful paper at the bottom of the ^ , ^wasted toil; 

sea; 

But I guess 'tn'as the prayer last evening, and the few 

, „ . ,1 If they'd kept to then- own business, we should have 

words you said, •' ^ 

That thawed the ice between us, and brought things to §*^ ^ °°^' 

There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man as we 

You see when we came to division, there was things Kno\\ , 

th-it wouldn't divide • ^^^^ hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the scythe 

There was our twelve-year-old baby, she couldn't be ^^" ^"® ' 

satisfied Then a load came over in peach time from the Wilbur 

To go with one or the other, "but just kept whimperin' neighborhood, 

YQy^. '• Season of prayer," they called it; didn't do an atom 

"I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where they go °* good. 

I'll go." I"ll tell j'oii about the heifer — one of the kindest and 

best — 

Then there was grandsire's Bible - he died on our rj,^^^ brother Ephraim gave me, the faU he moved out 

wedding day; West; 

We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should it go or j,^^ f^.^g ^^ ^^^.^ jj ^.^^^ ^^ ^^.^^ ^.^^^^ ^^^^^^^ j^^j^j. 

^^'^y- and say 

The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her sampler on gj^g ^-^^^ ^,f convulsions — a cow that milked four 

the wall, gallons a day. 
With the sweet old names worked in — Tryphena, and 

Eunice and Paul. But I needn't have spoke of turnips, needn't have 

been so cross, 

It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew harder And said hard things, and hinted as if 'twas all my 

still, loss; 

Talk-in' of Caleb established down at McHenry'sville ; And I'll take it aU back, parson; that fire shan't ever 

Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no mendin' break out, 

nor sort of care. Though the cow was choked ■\;\'ith a turnip, I never 

And board at the Widow Meacham's, a woman that had a doubt. 

wears false hair. 

Then there are p'ints of doctrine, and views of a future 

Still we went on a-talkin' ; I agreed to knitsome socks, state. 

And make a dozen striped shirts, aad a pair of wa'mus I'm willing to stop discussin' ; we can both afford to 

frocks; wait; 

And he was to cut a doonvay from the kitchen to the 'Twon't bring the millenium sooner, disputin' about 

shed : when it's due, 

"Save you climbing steps much, in frosty weather," Although I feel an assurance that mine's the Scriptural 

he said. view. 



DESCKIPTION AXD NAREATION. 



495 



on our knees; 
So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I"ll leave alone 
the decrees. 



But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I"ve learned to 1 hold another opinion, aud hold it straight and 

think, don't lie square, 

lu the texts we hunt with a candle to i^rove our doc- If we can't be peaceable here, we won't be peaceable 

trines by, there. 

But them that come to us in soitow, and when we're ^ , , , , -, , . 

But there s the request he made; you know it, parson, 

about 

Bein' laid under the maples that his own hand set 

out. 

One notion of Caleb's, parson, seems rather misty and And me to be laid beside him when my time comes i 

dim— to go; 

I wish, if it comes convenient, you'd change a word As if — as if — don't mind me; but 'twas that unstrung 

with him ; me so. 

It don't quite stand to reason, and for gospel it isn't 

clear, 

That folks love better in heaven for having quarreled 

here. 

more wise, 

I've no such an expectation; why, parson, if that is so, 'V\Tiy, Caleb says, and so I say, till the Lord parts him 
You needn't have worked so faithful to reconcile folks and me, 

below ; We'll love each other better, and trj"- our best to agree. 

Will. M. Carleton. 



And now that some scales, as we think, have fallen 

from our eyes, 
Aud things brought so to a crisis have made us both 



HOW THET BROUG-HT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 



P SPRAJ^G to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

p I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 

•ji'j UQ.QQJ1 speed! "' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 

s undrew ; 

1 "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 

through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other, we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Eebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 

right, 
Nor galloped less steadily Eoland a whit. 

'T was moonset at starting; butwhile we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 
At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be ; 
And from IMecheln church-steeple we heard the 

half-chime, 
So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time!" 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 

track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and 

anon, 
His tierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay 

spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her. 
We '11 remember at Aix," — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 

knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the Hank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered aud sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 

chaff ; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, for "Aix is in sight! 

"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment 

his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 



496 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



And there ■was my Roland to bear the whole -weight 
Of the news which alone conld save Aix froni her 

fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of hlood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let 

fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without 

peer ; 



Clapped mj' hands, laughed and sang, any noise, 

bad or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking round 

As I sat with his head "frwixt my knees on the 

ground. 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of 

wine. 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 

from Ghent. 

Robert Brom'ning. 



a^y- 




THE FALL OF PEMBERTOIsr MILL. 

HE silent city steeped and bathed itself in rose-tints; the river ran 
red, and the snow crimsoned on the distant New Hampshire hills ; 
Pemberton, mute and cold, frowned across the disk of the climbing 
sun, and dripped, as she had seen it drip before, with blood. The 
day broke softly, the snow melted, the wind blew warm from the river. 
The factory-bell chimed cheerily, and a few sleepers, in safe, luxurious 
beds, were wakened by hearing the girls sing on their way to work. 



Sene was a little dizzy that morning, — the constant palpitation of 
the floors always made her dizzy after a wakeful night, — and so her col- 
ored cotton threads danced out of place, and troubled her. Del Ivory, 
working beside her, said: " How the mill shakes ! What's going on? " 

"It's the new machinery they're h'isting in," observed the over- 
seer, carelessly. " Great improvement, but heavy, ver}'' heavy ; they 
calc'late on getting it all into place to-day; you'd better be tending to your frame, 

Miss Ivory." 

******** 

Years before, an unknown workman in South Boston, casting an iron pillar upon its 
core, had suffered it to "float" a little, a very little more, till the thin, unequal side 
cooled to the measure of an eighth of an inch. That man had provided Asenath's way 
of escape. 

She went out at noon with her luncheon, and found a place upon the stairs, away 
from the rest, and sat there awhile, with her e3^es upon the river, thinking. She could 
not help wondering a little, after all, why God need to have made her so unlike the 
rest of his fair handiwork. Del came bounding by, and nodded at her carelesslv. Two 
young Irish girls, sisters, — the beauties of the mill, — magnificently colored creatures, — 
were singing a little love-song together, while they tied on their hats to go home. 
"There are such pretty things in the world!" thought poor Sene. 

Did anybody speak to her after the girls were gone? Into her heart these words 
fell suddenly: "He hath no form nor comeliness. His visage was so marred more than 



DESCKIPTION AND NARRATION. 497 

any man." They clung to her fancy all the afternoon. She liked the sound of 
them. She wove them in with her black and dun-colored threads. 

The wind began at last to blow chilly up the staircases, and in at the cracks; 
the melted drifts out under the walls to harden ; the sun dipped above the dam ; 
the mill dimmed slowly; shadows crept down between the frames. "It's time for 
lights," said Meg Match, and swore a little at her spools. Sene, in the pauses of her 
thinking, heard snatches of the girls' talk. " Going to ask out to-morrow, Meg?" 
"Guess so, yes; me and Bob Smith we thought Ave'd go to Boston, and come up in 
the theatre train." "Del Ivory, I want the pattern of your zouave." "Did I go to 
church? No, you don't catch me! If I slave all the week, I'll do what I please on 
Sunday." "Hush-sh! There's the boss looking over here!" "Kathleen Donnavon, 
be still with your ghost-stories. There's one thing in the world I never will hear 
about, and that's dead people." "Del," said Sene, "I think to-morrow — " 

She stopped. Something strange had happened to her frame ; it jarred, buzzed, 
snapped; the threads untwisted and flew out of place. "Curious!" she said, and 
looked up. Looked up to see her overseer turn wildly, clap his hands to his head, 
and fall; to hear a shriek from Del that froze her blood; to see the solid ceiling 
gape above her ; to see the walls and windows stagger ; to see iron pillars reel, and 
vast machinery throw up its helpless, giant arms, and a tangle of human faces blanch 
and writhe ! She sprang as the floor sunk. As pillar after pillar gave way, she bounded 
up an inclined plane, with the gulf yawning after her. It gained upon her, leaped at 
her, caught her; beyond were the stairs and an open door; she threw out her arms, 
and struggled on with hands and knees, tripped in the gearing, and saw, as she fell, a 
square, oaken beam above her yield and crash; it was of a fresh red color; she dimly 
wondered why, — as she felt her hands slip, her knees slide, support, time, place, and 
reason, go utterly out. 

'■'At ten minutes before five, on Tuesday, the tenth of January, the Pemberton Mill, 
all hands being at the time on duty , fell to the ground.'" So the record flashed over the 
telegi-aph wires, sprang into large type in the newspapers, passed from lip to lip, a nine 
days' wonder, gave place to the successful candidate, and the muttering South, and was 
forgotten. Who shall say what it was to the seven hundred and fifty souls who were 
buried in the ruins? What to the eighty-eight who died that death of exquisite agony? 
What to the wrecks of men and women who endure unto this day a life that is worse than 
death? What to that architect and engineer who, when the fatal pillars were first 
delivered to them for inspection, had found one broken under their eyes, yet accepted the 
contract, and built with them a mill whose thin walls and wide, unsupported stretches 
might have tottered over massive columns and on flawless ore? 

Sene's father, working at Meg Match's shoes, — she was never to wear those shoes, 
poor Meg! — heard, at ten minutes before five, what he thought to be the rumble of an 
earthquake under his very feet, and stood with bated breath, waiting for the crash. As 
nothing further appeared to happen, he took his stick and limped out into the street. A 
vast crowd surged through it from end to end. Women with white lips were counting the 
mills, — Pacific, Atlantic, Washington, — Pemberton! Where was Pemberton? Where 
Pemberton had winked its many eyes last night, and hummed with its iron lips this noon, 
a cloud of dust, black, silent, horrible, puffed a hundred feet into the air. 



498 THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 

Asenath opened her eyes after a time. Beautiful green and purple lights had been 
dancing about her, but she had had no thoughts. It occurred to her now that she must 
have been struck upon the head. The church-clocks were striking eight. A bonfire 
which had been built at a distance, to light the citizens in the work of rescue, cast a little 
gleam in through the debris across her two hands, which lay clasped together at her side. 
One of her fingers, she saw, was gone; it was the finger which held Dick's little engage- 
ment ring. The red beam lay across her forehead, and drops dripped from it upon her 
eyes. Her feet, still tangled in the gearing which had tripped her, were buried beneath a 
pile of bricks. A broad piece of flooring, that had fallen slantwise, roofed her in, and 
saved her from the mass of ironwork overheard, which would have crushed the breath out 
of Hercules. Fragments of looms, shafts, and pillars were in heaps about. Some one 
whom she could not see was dying just behind her. A httle girl who worked in her 
room — a mere child — was crying, between her groans, for her mother. Del Ivory sat 
in a little open space, cushioned about with reels of cotton; she had a shallow gash upon 
her cheek; she was wringing her hands. They were at work from the outside, sawing 
entrances through the labyrinth of planks. A dead woman lay close hy, and Sene saw 
them draw her out. It was Meg ]Match. One of the pretty Irish girls was crushed quite 
out of sight ; only one hand was free ; she moved it f eebl}'. They could hear her calling 
for Jimmy Mahoney, Jimmy Mahoney ! and would they be sure and give him back the 
handkerchief ? Poor Jimmy Mahonej^ ! By-and-by she called no more ; and in a little 
while the hand was still. On the other side of the slanted flooring some one prayed aloud. 
She had a little baby at home. She was asking God to take care of it for her. "For 
Christ's sake," she said. Sene listened for the Amen, but it was never spoken. Beyond, 
they dug a man out from under a dead body, unhurt. He crawled to his feet, and broke 
into furious blasphemies. 

Del cried presently, that they were cutting them out. The glare of the bonfires 
struck through an opening; saws and axes flashed; voices grew distinct. "They 
never can get at me," said Sene. " I must be able to crawl. If vou could gret 
some of those bricks off of my feet, Del!" Del took off two or three in a 
frightened way; then, seeing the blood on them, sat down and cried. 

A Scotch girl, with one arm shattered, crept up and removed the pile, then 
fainted. The opening broadened, brightened; the sweet night-wind blew in; the safe 
night-sky shone through. Sene's heart leaped within her. Out in the wind and 
under the sky she should stand again, after all ! Back in the little bi'ight kitchen, 
where the sun shone, and she could sing a song, there would yet be a place for 
her. She thought of her father, of Dick, of the supper-table set for three. Life 
— even her life — grew sweet, now that it was slipping from her. She worked her 
head from under the beam, and raised herself upon her elbow. At that moment 
she heard a cry: "Fire! fire! God Almighty help them, — (he ruins are on fire!'' 

A man working over the debris from the outside had taken the notion — it being 
rather dark just there — to carry a lantern with him. "For God's sake," a voice 
cried from the crowd, "don't stay there with that light!'' But before the words 
had died upon the air, it was the dreadful fate of the man with the lantern to 
let it fall, — and it broke upon the ruined mass. 



DESCEIPTION AND NAKKATION. 499 

That was at nine o'clock. What there was to see from then till morning could 
never be told or forgotten. A network twenty feet high, of rods and girders, of 
beams, pillars, stairways, gearing, rooting, ceiling, walling; wrecks of looms, shafts, 
twisters, pulleys, bobbins, mules, locked and interwoven; wrecks of human creatures 
wedged in; a face that you know turned up at you from some pit which twenty- 
four hours' hewing could not open ; a voice that you know crying after you from 
God knows where ; a mass of long, fair hair visible here, a foot there, three fingers 
of a hand over there; the snow bright-red under foot; charred limbs and headless 
trunks tossed about; strong men carrying covered things by you, at sight of which 
other strong men have fainted; the little yellow jet that flared up and died in 
smoke, and flared again, leaped out, licked the cotton-bales, tasted the oiled machinery, 
crunched the netted wood, danced on the heaped-up stone, threw its cruel arms high 
into the night, roared for joy at helpless firemen, and swallowed wreck, death, and 
life together out of your sight, — the lurid thing stands alone in the galler}^ of tragedy. 

"Del," said Sene, presently, "I smell the smoke." And in a little while, 
"How red it is growing away over there at the left!" 

To lie here and watch the hideous redness crawling after her, springing at her ! 
— it had seemed greater than reason could bear, at first. Now it did not trouble 
her. She grew a little faint, and her thoughts wandered. She put her head down 
upon her arm, and shut her eyes. Dreamily she heard them saying a dreadful thing 
outside, about one of the overseers; at the alarm of fire he had cut his throat, and 
before the flames touched him he was taken out. Dreamily she heard Del cry that 
the shaft behind the heap of reels was growing hot. Dreamily she saw a tiny puff of 
smoke struggle through the cracks of a broken fly-frame. They were working to save 
her, with rigid, stern faces. A plank snapped, a rod yielded; they drew out the 
Scotch girl ; her hair was singed ; then a man with blood upon his face and wrists 
held down his arms. "There's time for one more! God save the rest of ye, — I 
can't!" 

Del sprang; then stopped, — even Del stopped, ashamed, — and looked back at the 
cripple. Asenath at this sat up erect. The latent heroism in her awoke. All her 
thoughts grew clear and bright. The tangled skein of her perplexed and troubled 
winter unwound suddenly. This, then, was the way. It was better so. God had 
provided himself a lamb for the burnt offering. So she said, " Go, Del, and tell 
him I sent you with my dear love, and that it's all right." And Del at the first 
word went. Sene sat and watched them draw her out; it was a slow process; the 
loose sleeve of her factory sack was scorched. Somebody at work outside turned 
suddenly and caught her. It was Dick. The love which he had fought so long 
broke free of barrier in that hour. He kissed her pink arm where the burnt sleeve 
fell off. He uttered a cry at the blood upon her face. She turned faint with 
the sense of safety; and he, with a face as white as her own, bore her away in 
his arms to the hospital, over the crimson snow. Asenath looked out through the 
glare and smoke with parched lips. For a scratch upon the girl's smooth cheek, 
he had quite forgotten her. They had left her, tombed alive here in this furnace, 
and gone their happy way. Yet it gave her a curious sense of relief and triumph. 



500 THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

If this were all that she could be to him, the thing which she had done was right, 
quite right. God must have known. She turned away, and shut her eyes again. 
When she opened them, neither Dick, nor Del, nor crimsoned snow, nor sky, were 
there; only the smoke writhing up a pillar of blood-red flame. The child who had 
called for her mother began to sob out that she was afraid to die alone. " Come 
here, Molly," said Sene. "Can you crawl around?" Molly crawled around. "Put 
your head in my lap, and your arms about my waist, and I will put my hands in 
yours, — so. There! I guess that's better." 

But thc}^ had not given them up yet. In the still unburnt rubbish at the right, 
some one had wrenched an opening within a foot of Sene's face. They clawed at 
the solid iron pintles like savage things. A fireman fainted in the glow. " Give 
it up!" cried the crowd from behind. "It can't be done! Fall back!" — then 
hushed, awe-struck. An old man was crawling along upon his hands and knees over 
the heated bricks. He was a very old man. His gray hair blew about in the wind. 
"I want my little gal!" he said. "Can't anybody tell me where to find my little 
gal?" A rough-looking young fellow pointed in perfect silence through the smoke. 
"I'll have her out yet. I'm an old man, but I can help. She's my little gal, ye 
see. Hand me that there dipper of water; it'll keep her fx*om choking, may be. 
Now, keep cheery, Sene ! Your old father'll get ye out. Keep up good heart, 
child! That's it!" 

"It's no use, father. Don't feel bad, father. I don't mind it very much." 
He hacked at the timber ; he tried to laugh ; he bewildered himself with cheerful 
words. " No more ye needn't, Senath, for it'll be over in a minute. Don't be down- 
cast yet ! We'll have ye safe at home before ye know it. Drink a little more 
water, — do now! They'll get at ye now, sure! " 

But above the crackle and roar a woman's voice rang out like a bell: — 

"We're going home, to die no more." 

A child's notes quavered in the chorus. From sealed and unseen graves, white young 
lips swelled the glad refrain, — 

" We're going home, we're going home." 

The crawling smoke turned yellow, turned i*ed. Voice after voice broke and hushed 
utterly. One only sang on like silver. It flung defiance down at death. It chimed into 
the lurid sky without a tremor. For One stood beside her in the furnace, and his form 
was like unto the form of the Son of God. Their eyes met. Why should not Asenath 



sing? 



"Senath!" cried the old man out upon the burning bricks; he was scorched now, 
from his gray hair to his patched boots. The answer came triumphantly, 

"To die no more, no more, no more! " 
" Sene ! little Sene ! " But some one pulled him back. 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 



pj|p0-M0RR0W. and to-morrow, and to-morrow. The way to dusty death. Out. out. brief caudle I 

pB^, Creeps in this pettj' pace from day to day, Life "s but a walking shadow; a poor player. 

^'^^ To the last sj'llable of recorded time; That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 

J4 And all oiu- yesterdays haye lighted fools And then is heard no more. 



DESCEIPTION AJSTD NAKEATION. 



501 



A NORTHERN WINTER. 



^p^EHOLD a scene, magnificent and new; 
i^P Nor land nor water meet the excursive view; 
Jii The round horizon girds one frozen plain, 
* The mighty tombstone of the buried main, 
Where, dark and silent, and unfelt to flow, 
A dead sea sleeps with all its tribes below. 



Nor shines he here in solitude unknown; 

North, south, and west, by dogs or reindeer drawn. 

Careering sledges cross the unbroken lawn. 

And bring from bays and forelands round the coast. 

Youth, beauty, valor, Greenland's proudest boast. 

Who thus, in winter's long and social reign. 




"North, south, and west, by dogs or reindeer drawn, 
Careerinsf sledges cross the unbroken lawn," 



But heaven is still itself; the deep blue sky 
Comes down with smiles to meet the glancing eye, 
Though, if a keener sight its bound would trace, 
The arch recedes through everlasting space. 
The sun, in morning glory, mounts his throne. 



Hold feasts and tournaments upon the main, 
When, built of solid floods, his bridge extends 
A highway o'er the gulf to meeting friends. 
Whom rocks impassable, or winds and tide, 
Fickle and false, in summer months divide. 



502 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



The scene runs round with motion, rings with mirth. 

Xo happier spot upon the peopled earth : 

The drifted snow to dust the travelers beat. 

The uneven ice is flint beneath their feet. 

Here tents, a gay encampment, rise around. 

A\*here music, song, and revelry resound; 

There the blue smoke upwreathes a hundred spires, 

\Yhere humbler groups have lit their pine-wood tires. 



Ere long they quit the tables; knights and dames 
Lead the blithe multitude to boisterous games. 
Bears, wolves, and lynxes yonder head the chase ; 
Here start the harnessed reindeer in the race. 
Borne without wheels, a flight of rival cars 
Track the ice-firmament, like shooting stars. 
Eight to the goal. — converging as they run, 
They dwindle through the distance into one. 

•JAiiES Montgomery. 



-tS^— S=T- 



THE CHILDREN IX THE AYOOD. 



fj^OW ponder well, you parents deare. 

These wordes ■« hich I shall write ; 
A doleful story you shall heare, 

In time brought forth to light. 
A gentleman of good account, 

In Xorfolke dwelt of late, 
AMao did in honor far sm-mount 

Most men of his estate. 



•'You must be father and mother both. 

And uncle all in one ; 
God knowes what will become of them. 

When I am dead and gone." 
With that bespake their mother deare, 

'■ O brother kiude." quoth shee, 
'•You are the man must bring our babes 

To wealth or miserie : 



Sore sicke he was. and like to dye, 

Xo helpe his life could save ; 
His wife by him as sicke did lye. 

And both possest one grave. 
Xo love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kiude ; 
In love they lived, in love they dyed. 

And left two babes behinde : 



'•And if you keep them carefully. 

Then God will you reward ; 
But if j'ou otherwise should deal, 

God will j-our deedes regard." 
With lippes as cold as any stone. 

They kist their children small : 
"God bless you both, mj^ children deare; '■ 

With that the teares did fall. 



The one a fine and prettj- boy, 

Xot passing three yeares olde; 
The other a girl more young than he. 

And framed in beautye's molde. 
The father left his little son, 

As plainlye doth appeare. 
When he to perfect age should come, 

Three hundred poundes a j-eare. 



These speeches then their brother spake 

To this sicke couple there ; 
"The keeping of your little ones. 

Sweet sister, do not feare. 
God never prosper me nor mine, 

Xor aught else that I have. 
If I do wrong your children deare, 

"NMien vou are lavd in grave." 



And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred poundes in gold. 
To be paid downe on marriage-day, 

■\Maich might not be controlled: 
But if the children chance to dye. 

Ere they to age should come. 
Their uncle should possesse their wealth ; 

For so the wille did run. 



The parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes. 
And bringes them straite unto his house. 

"Uliere much of them he makes. 
He had not kept these pretty babes 

A twelvemonth and a daye. 
But, for their wealth, he did devi.se 

To make them both awaye. 



"Xow, brother."" said the dying man, 

'•Look to my children deare; 
Be good unto my boy and girl, 

Xo f riendes else have they here : 
To God and you I recommend 

My children deare this daye; 
But little while be sure we have 

Within this world to stave. 



He bargained ^\ith two ruffians strong. 

AAliich were of furious mood. 
That thej- should take these children young, 

And slave them in a wood. 
He told his wife an artful tale : 

He would the children send 
To be brought up in faire liOndon, 

With one that was his friend. 



DESCRIPTIOISr AND NARRATION. 



503 



Away then went those pretty babes 

Rejoycing at that tide, 
Rejoycing with a merry niinde, 

They should on cock-horse ride. 
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 

As they rode on the waye. 
To those that should their butchers be. 

And work their lives' decaye : 

So that the pretty speeche they had, 

Made Murder's heart i-elent: 
And they that uudertooke the deed, 

Full sore did now repent. 
Yet one of them more hard of heart, 

Did vowe to do his charge. 
Because the wretch that hired him 

Had paid him very large. 

The other won't agree thereto. 

So here thej' fall to strife ; 
With one another they did fight, 

About the children's life : 
And he that was of mildest mood 

Did slaye the other there. 
Within an unfrequented wood; 

The babes did quake for feare ! 

He took the children by the hand, 

Teares standing in their eye. 
And bad them straitwaye follow him. 

And look they did not crye : 
And two long miles he ledd them on. 

While they for food complaine : 
"Staye here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread. 

When I come back againe." 

These pretty babes, with hand in hand. 

Went wandering up and downe; 
But never more could see the man 

Approaching from the towne : 
Their prettye lippes with blackberries 

Were all besmeared and dyed. 
And when they sawe the darksome night. 

They sat them downe and cryed. 



Thus wandered these poor innocents 

Till deathe did end their grief. 
In one another's arnies they died, 

As wanting due relief: 
No burial this pretty pair 

Of any man receives. 
Till Robin-redbreast piously 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrathe of God 

Upon their uncle fell; 
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, 

His conscience felt an hell; 
His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed. 

His landes were barren made. 
His cattle dj^ed within the field. 

And nothing with him stayd. 

And in the voyage of Portugal 

Two of his sonnes did dye; 
And to conclude, himselfe was brought 

To want and miserye : 
He pawned and mortgaged all his land 

Ere seven years came about,. 
And now at length this wicked act 

Did by this means come out: 

The fellowe that did take in hand 

These children for to kill. 
Was for a robbery judged to dye, 

Such was God's blessed will : 
Who did confess the very truth. 

As here hath been displayed : 
Their uncle having dyed in gaol, 

Where he for debt was layd. 

You that executors be made, 

And overseers eke 
Of children that be fatherless, 

And infants mild and meek; 
Take you example by this thing. 

And yield to each his right. 
Lest God with such like miserye 

Your wicked minds requite. 



3S— SS^- 



THE MASSACRE OF FORT DEARBORN. 

IChicago, 1812.I 

^?ORN of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's filmy 
^ and the green, wing — 

B A city of the Occident, Chicago lay between ; They said 't was Dearborn's picket-flag when Wilder- 
•%^ Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon 
the main. 



I heard the reed-bird's morning song — the Indian's 



On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered 



awkward flail — 
The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of April 
hail — 



504 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



The beaded grasses" rustling bend — the swash of the The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just 
lazy tide. marching out of life. 

Where ships shake out the salted sails and navies The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon 
grandly ride! the rank 

I heard the Block-house gates unbar, the column's ^^^ struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and iu 

solemn tread, flank, 

I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling 

shed rain — 

To wave awhile that August morn above the column's The sand-hills drift round hope forlorn that never 

head ; marched again I 

I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail 

of fife, Benjamin F. Taylok. 



-^ 



s-S^t^ •^>- 




" Aloft as o'er a buoyant arch they go. 

Whose keystone breaks, as deep they plunge below." 



THE SHIPWRECKED SAILORS. 



IHIIHE floods are raging, and the gales blow high, 
m^^ Low as a dungeon-roof impends the sky; 
Y(K Prisoners of hope, between the clouds and 

i?r waves. 

Six fearless sailors man yon boat that braves 

Peril redoubling upon peril past : 

— From childhood nurslings of the wayw;;nl blast. 

Aloft as o'er a buovant arch they co. 



"Whose keystone breaks, —as deep they plunge 

below ; 
Unyielding, though the strength of man be vain; 
Struo-o-ling. though borne like surf along the main: 
In front, a battlement of rocks; in rear, 
Billow on billow bounding: near, more near. 
They verge to ruin: — life and death depend 
On the next impulse , — shrieks and prayers ascend. 
James Montgomebt. 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



505 




DISCOVERT OF AMERICA. 

OLUMBUS was fully sensible of his perilous situation. He had observed, 
with great uneasiness, the fatal operation of ignorance and of fear in 
producing disaffection among his crew, and saw that it was now ready 
to burst out into open mutiny. He retained, however, perfect presence 
of mind. He affected to seem ignorant of their machinations. Not- 
withstanding the agitation and solicitude of his own mind, he appeared 
with a cheerful countenance, like a man satisfied with the progress 
he had made, and confident of success. Sometimes he employed all 
the arts of insinuation to soothe his men. Sometimes he endeavored 
to work upon their ambition or avarice by magnificent descriptions of 
the fame and wealth which they were about to acquire. On other 
occasions he assumed a tone of authority, and threatened them with vengeance from 
their sovereio-n if, by their dastardly behavior, they should defeat this noble effort to 
promote the glory of God, and to exalt the Spanish name above that of every other 
nation. Even with seditious sailors, the words of a man whom they had been accus- 
tomed to reverence, were weighty and persuasive, and not only restrained them from 
those violent excesses which they meditated, but prevailed with them to accompany 
their admiral for some time longer. 

As they proceeded, the indications of approaching land seemed to be more certain, 
and excited hope in proportion. The birds began to appear in flocks, making towards 
the south-west. Columbus, in imitation of the Portuguese navigators, who had been 
guided in several of their discoveries by the motion of birds, altered his course from 
due west towards that quarter whither they pointed their flight. But, after holding on 
for several days in this new direction, without any better success than formerly, having 
seen no object during thirty days but the sea and the sky, the hopes of his companions 
subsided faster than they had risen ; their fears revived with additional force; impatience, 
rage, and despair appeared in every countenance. All sense of subordination was lost. 
The oflScers, who had hitherto concurred with Columbus in opinion, and su])ported his 
authority, now took part with the private men; they assembled tumultuously on the 
deck, expostulated with their commander, mingled threats with their expostulations, and 
required him instantly to tack about and return to Europe. Columbus perceived that 
it would be of no avail to have recourse to any of his former arts, which, having 
been tried so often, had lost their effect; and that it was impossible to rekindle any 
zeal for the success of the expedition among men in whose breasts fear had extinguished 
every generous sentiment. He saw that it was no less vain to think of employing 
either gentle or severe measures to quell a mutiny so general and so violent. It was 
necessary, on all these accounts, to soothe passions which he could no longer command, 
and to give way to a torrent too impetuous to be checked. He promised solemnly to 
his men that he would comply with their request, provided they would accompany 
him and obey his command for three days longer, and if, during that time, land were 
not discovered, he would then abandon the enterprise, and direct his course towards 
Spain. 



506 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient to turn their faces again towards their 
native country, this proposition did not appear to them unreasonable; nor did Columbus 
hazard much in confining himself to a term so shoi't. The presages of discovering land 
were now so numerous and jDromising that he deemed them infallible. For some days the 
sounding-line reached the bottom, and the soil which it brought up indicated land to be at 
no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, 
but of such land-birds as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. The crew of 
the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a 

piece of wood artificially carved. 
The sailors aboard the Nigna 
took • up the branch of a tree 
with red berries perfectly fresh. 
The clouds around the setting 
sun assumed a new appearance; 
the air was more mild and warm, 
and during night the wind be- 
came unequal and variable. From 
all these symptoms, Columbus 
was so confident of being near 
land, that on the evening of the 
eleventh of October, after pub- 
lic prayers for success, he or- 
dered the sails to be furled, and 
the ships to lie to, keeping strict 
watch lest they should be driven 
ashore in the night. During this 
interval of suspense and expec- 
tation, no man shut his eyes, all 
kept upon deck, gazing intently 
towards that quarter where they 
expected to discover the land, 
which had so long been the ob- 
ject of their wishes. 

About two hours before mid- 

"They threw themselves at the feef of Columbus." night, ColumbuS, Standing On 

the forecastle, obseiwed a light at a distance, and privately pointed it out to Pedro 
Guttierez, a page of the queen's wardrobe. Guttierez perceived it, and calling to Sal- 
cedo, comptroller of the fleet, all three saw it in motion, as if it were carried from place to 
place. A little after midnight, the joyful sound of "Land ! Land ! " was heard from the 
Pinta, which kept always ahead of the other ships. But having been so often deceived 
by fallacious appearances, every man was now become slow of belief, and waited in all 
the anguish of uncertainty and impatience for the retu^ of day. As soon as morning 
dawned, all doubts and fears were dispelled. From every ship an island was seen about two 
leao-ues to the north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, and watered 
with many rivulets, presented tlie aspect of a delightful country. The crew of the Pinta 




DESCEIPTION AJSTD NAEKATION. 507 

instantly began the Te Deum, as a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were joined by 
: those of the other ships with tears of joy and transports of congratulation. This office of 
gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their commander. They threw 
themselves at the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation, mingled with 
reverence. They implored him to pardon their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which 
had created him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often obstructed the prosecu- 
tion of his well-concerted plan; and passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one 
extreme to another, they now pronounced the man whom they had so lately reviled and 
threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with sagacity and fortitude more than 
human, in order to accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conception of all 
former ages. 

As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned and armed. They rowed 
towards the island with their colors displayed, with warlike music, and other martial pomp. 
As they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a multitude of people, whom the 
novelty of the spectacle had drawn together, whose attitude and gestures expressed wonder 
and astonishment at the strange objects which presented themselves to their view. Colum- 
bus was the first European who set foot on the new world which he had discovered. 
He landed in a rich dress, and with a naked sword in his hand. His men followed, and 
kneeling down, they all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. They next 
erected a crucifix, and prostrating themselves before it, returned thanks to God for con- 
ducting their voyage to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession of the 
countr}^ for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all the formalities which the Portuguese 
were accustomed to observe in acts of this kind in their new discoveries. 

The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded by many of the natives, who 
gazed in silent admiration upon actions which they could not comprehend, and of which 
they did not foresee the consequences. The dress of the Spaniards, the whiteness of their 
skins, their beards, their arms, appeared strange and surprising. The vast machines in 
which they had traversed the ocean, that seemed to move upon the waters with wings, and 
uttered a dreadful sound resembling thunder, accompanied with lightning and smoke, struck 
them with such terror that they began to respect their new guests as a superior order of 
beings, and concluded that they were children of the sun, who had descended to visit 
the earth. 

William Robertson. 



THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 

|rLD was the night, yet a wilder night They knew by his awful and kingly look, 
Hung round the soldier's pillow; By the order hastily spoken, 

'^^j^ In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, 
Than the fight on the wrathful billow. And the nations' hosts were broken. 

A few fond mourners were kneeling by, He dreamed that the Frenchman's swoi'd still sle^\", 
The few that his stern heart cherished; And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, 

They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye. And the struggling Austrian fled anew. 
That life had nearly perished. Like the hare before the beagle. 



508 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



The bearded Russian he scourged again, 
The Prussian's camp was routed. 

And again on the hills of haughty Spain 
His mighty armies shouted. 

Over Egj'pfs sands, over Alpine snows, 
At the pyramids, at the mountain, 

WTiere the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
And by the Italian fountain. 

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams 
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 



He led again, in his d3ing dreams. 
His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 

Again Marengo's field was won. 

And Jena"s bloody battle ; 
Again the world ^\'as overrun, 

Made pale at his cannon's rattle. 

He died at the close of that darksome day, 

A day that shall live in storj'; 
In the rocky land they placed his clay, 

••And left him alone with his glory." 

Isaac McClellan. 



THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. 




ijKi'N a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring bil- 
lows 
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests 
rave, 

The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows. 
Like fond weeping mourners lean over the grave. 
The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders 
rattle : 
He heeds not, he hears not, he "s free from all 
pain ; — 
He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last bat- 
tle! 
No sound can awake him to glory again ! 

O shade of the mightj'. where no^^' are the legions 
That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them 
on? 

Alas ! they have perished in far hilly regions. 
And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! 



The trumi)et may sound, and the loud cannon rattle! 
They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all 
pain : 
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their 
last battle ! 
No sound can awake them to glorv again! 

Yet, spirit imniorbil, the tomb cannot bind thee, 

For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun. 
Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind 
thee 
A name which before thee no mortal had won. 
Though nations may combat, and war's thunders 
rattle. 
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the 
plain; 
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last 
battle ! 
No sound can awake thee to glorj' again! 



— ..<>.^-^.o.. 



THE OVERLAND TRAIN. 



pIprHE Plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel; 
^^ The crash of leather whips ; the crush and i-oll 

fOf wheels; the groan of yokes and grinding 
steel 
And iron chain, and lo ! at last the whole 
Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal. 
Began to stretch and stream a^^•ay and wind 
Toward the west, as if with one control : 
Then hope loomed fair, and home lay far behind ; 
Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their kind. 

Some hill> at last began to lift and bi'cak ; 
Some streams began to fail of wood and tide. 
The sombre plain began betime to take 
A hue of weary brown, and wild and N\ide 
It stretched its naked breast on everj' side. 



A babe was heard at last to cry for bread 
Amid tbe deserts; cattle lowed and died 
And dying men went by with broken tread. 
And left a long black serpent line of wreck and 
dead. 

They rose by night ; they struggled on and on 
As thin and still as ghosts; theu here and there 
Beside the dusty way before the dawn 
Men silent laid them do^^■n in their despair, 
And died. But woman! "Woman, frail Jas fair! 
May man have strength to give to you your due: 
You faltered not. nor murnmred au.vwhere. 
You held your babes, held to your course, and you 
Bore on through burning hell your double burthens 
through. 



DESCEIPTION AND NAEKATION. 



509 



The dust arose, a long dim line like smoke 
From out a riven earth. The wheels went by, 
The thousand feet in harness and in yoke, 
They tore the ways of ashen alkali, 
And desert winds blew sudden, swift and dry. 
The dust I it sat upon and filled the train! 
It seemed to fret and fill the very sky. 
Lo! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the plain. 
And dust, alas ! on breasts that rose not up again. 



My brave and unremembered heroes, rest; 
You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. 
Sleep on unsung, for this, I say, were best; 
The world to-day has hardly time to weep ; 
The world to-day will hardly care to keep 
In heart her plain aud unpretending brave; 
The desert winds, they whistle by and sweep 
About you ; browned and russet grasses wave 
Along a thousand leagues that lie one conunon grave 

Joaquin Milleij. 



-L-S-^cr-^Lr- 




"The mother — the lads, with their nest, at her knee." 



ROBBING THE NEST. 



T\WF last we stood at our mother's knee; 
Do you think, sir, if you try. 
You can paint the look of a lie? 
If you can, pray have the grace 
To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 

But that's no matter — paint it so ; 
The eyes of our mother — take good heed — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs. 
But straight through our faces, down to our lies. 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! 
32 



I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as 
though 
A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know. 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
Woods and cornfields, and mulberry tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their nest, at her knee; 

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout. 
If you paint me the picture and leave that out. 

Alice Cart. 



510 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



THE FAMINE. 



IpicH the long aud dreary winter ! 
^ip Oh the cold and cruel winter! 

fEver thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake aud river ; 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er aU the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 
Hardlv from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no footprints. 
In the ghastlj'. gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness. 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

Oh the famine and tlie fever! 
Oh the ^\'asting of the famine ! 
Oh the blastiug of the fever ! 
Oh the wailing of the children! 
Oh the anguish of the women! 
All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungrj' stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy; 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without ^^•ord of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 
And the foremost said : "• Behold me! 
I am Famine, Buckadawin! " 
And the other said '• Behold me! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin! " 
Aud the lovely IMinnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her. 
Shuddered at the words they uttered. 
Lay down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, bui-uiug 
At the looks they cast upon her. 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the emptj' forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow. 



In his face a stony firmness, 

On his brow the sweat of anguish 

Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting 

With his mightj' bow of ash-tree, 

AVith his quiver full of arrows. 

With his mittens, Miujekahwun, 

Into the vast and vacant forest 

On his snow-shoes sti'ode he forward. 

" Gitche Manito, the mighty I " 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish. 
"Give your children food, O Father! 
Give us food, or we must jierish ! 
Give me food for Miuneliaha, 
For my dying ]Minnehahal '' 
Through the far-i-esounding forest. 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying. 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest. 
Through the shadow of -whose thickets. 
In the pleasant days of summer. 
Of that ne'er forgotten summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
WTieu the birds sang in the thickets. 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened. 
And the air was full of fragrance. 
And the loving Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will foUow you, my husband ! '' 

In the wigwam with Xokomis, 
With those gloomy gue^s that watched her. 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 
" Hark! " she said, '■ I hear a rushing. 
Hear a roaring and a rushing. 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child! '' said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the night- wind in the pine-trees! " 
" Look! " she said, " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs! " 
"No, my child ' " said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the smoke that ^^■aves and beckons! " 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



511 



" Ah! " she sfiid, "the eyes of Panguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his ie.y lingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness! 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha! '' 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest. 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden crj^ of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless. 
Under snow-encumhered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted. 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing; 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin! Wahonowin! " 
And he rushed into the wigwam. 
Saw the old Nokomis slowlj^ 
Rocking to and fro and moaning. 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Ljdng dead and cold before him. 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a ciy of anguish. 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those \\illing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him. 
Never more would lightly follow. 



With both hands his face he covered. 
Seven long days and nights he sat there. 
As if in a swoon he sat there. 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave tliej' made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome. 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments. 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times Avas kindled. 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest. 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; 
From his sleepless bed uprising. 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorwaj-, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

"Farewell! " said he. "Minnehaha; 
Farewell. O my Laughing VYater! 
All my heart is buried with you. 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Wliere the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and \\'aste the bodj'. 
Soon my task will be completed. 
Soon j^our footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah. 
To the Land of the Hereafter! " 

Henry Wadswoktii Longfellow. 



JHE maid, and therebv hangs a tale. 
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
Could ever yet produce : 
J4 No grape that "s kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she. 
Nor half so full of juice. 



THE BRIDE. 



Her feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice, stole in and out. 

As if they feared the light; 
But O. she dances such a way! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 



Her finger was so small, the ring 

Would not stay on which they did bring, — 

It was too wide a peck ; 
And, to say truth,— for out it must,— 
It looked like the great collar — just — 

About our young colt's neck. 



Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
No dais}^ makes comparison ; 

Who sees them is undone; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Katherine pear. 

The side that 's next the sun. 



512 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



Her lips were red ; and one was thin. 
Compared to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newlj^ ; 
But. Dick, her eyes so guard her face 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 

Than on the sun in July. 



Her mouth so small, when she does speak. 
Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 
***** 

Sir John Suckling. 



THE OLD MILL. 



yf OXELY by Miami's stream. 
Gray in twilight's fading beam, 
Spectral, desolate and still; 
Smitten by the storm of years. 
Ah! how changed to me appears 
Yonder old deserted mill. 




"Glides the river past the mill, 
But the wheels are stark and still.' 



AVhile my pensive eyes behold 
Mossy roof and gable old, 

Shadowy through obscuring ti-ees, 
Memory's vision, quick and true. 
Time's long vista looking through. 

Bygone scenes more plainly sees. 



Sees upon the garner floor 
Wheat and corn in ample store, — 

Powdery whiteness every%vhere ; 
Sees a miller, short and stout. 
Whistling cheerfully about, 

Making merry with his care. 

Pleased, he listens to the whirr 
Of the swift- revolving burr, 

Deeming brief each busj- hour; 
Like a stream of finest snow. 
Sifting to the bin below. 

Fall the tinj^ flakes of flour. 

Once, with childhood's vague intent, 
Down some furtive way I went, 

Through a broken floor to peer; 
Saw the fearful water drift 
In a cui-rent, dark and swift. 

Flying from the angry weir. 

Ouce, with timid steps and soft, 
Stealthily I climbed aloft; 

LTp and up the highest stair; 
Ii'on cogs were rumbling round, — 
Every vague and awful sound. 

Mocked and mumbled at me there. 

Wonder if those wheels remain. 
And would frighten ine again? 

Wonder if the miller's dead? 
Wonder if his ghost at night 
Haunts the stairs, a phantom white? 

Walks the loft with hollow tread? 

Glides the river past the mill. 
But the wheels are stark and still. 

Worn and wasting, day by day; 
So the stream of years will run 
When my busy life is done. 

So my task-house shall decay. 

W. H. Venable. 



I^IIHE beauty of the country surpasses all the grandeur of the city. In the city there 
W^^ are gardens cultivated with floral skill ; but they are not half so lovely even as the 
fields, whose swelling grain waves, and nods, and trembles to the whisking wind. 



DESCEEPTION KND NARRATION. 



513 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 



i^f^ISTEN, ray children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy Five: 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend — "'If the British march 

By land or sea from the town to-night. 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch 

Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light — 

One if by land, and two if by sea; 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

Through every Middlesex village and farm, 

For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 

Just as the moon rose over the bay. 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war: 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon, like a prison-bar. 

And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street 
Wanders and watches with eager ears. 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
And the nreasured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the shoi-e. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church. 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 
To the belfry-chamber over-head. 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade — 
Up the light ladder, slender and tall. 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the quiet town. 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still. 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread 

The watchful night-wind as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

Aud seeming to whisper, "All is well! " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 



On a shadowy something far away. 
Where the river widens to meet the bay — 
A line of black, that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride. 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side. 
Now gazed on the landscape far and near. 
Then impetuous stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill. 
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. 

Aud lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns. 

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a balk in the dark, 
And beneath from the i^ebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: 
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

It was twelve by the village-clock. 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town, 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog. 

And felt the damp of the river-fog. 

That rises when the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village-clock, 

When he rode into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weatliercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare. 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village-clock. 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, « 

And felt the breath of the morning-breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead. 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 



514 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



You know the rest. In the hooks yon have read 
How the British regulars fired and fled — 
How the farmers gave them hall for ball. 
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 



To every Middlesex village and farm — 

A cry of defiance, and not of fear — 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo for evermore! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last. 

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need. 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrjnng hoof-beat of that steed. 

And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 




TRIAL OF RICHAED B^U^TEE. 



HE judge entered the court with his face flaming: " he snorted and 
squeaked, blew his nose and clenched his hands, and lifted up his eyes, 
mimicking their manner, and running on furiously, as he said they used 
to pray." The ermined buffoon extorted a smile from the Nonconform- 
ists themselves. Pollexfen, the leading counsel for the defense, gave 
into the humor, and attempted to gain attention for his argument by a 
jest. " My lord," he said, " some will think it a hard measm*e to stop 
these men's mouths, and not to let them speak through their noses." 

"Pollexfen," said Jeffreys, " I know you well. You are the patron 
of the faction ; this is an old rogue who has poisoned the world with his 
Kidderminster doctrine. He encouraged all the women to bring their 
bodkins and thimbles to carry on the war against their king, of ever blessed memory. An 
old schismatical knave — a hypocritical villain." "My lord," replied the counsel, "Mr. 
Baxter's loyal and peaceable spirit King Charles would have rewarded with a bishopric, 
when he came in, if he would have conformed.'* " Ay," said the judge, " we know that; 
but what ailed the old blockhead, the unthankful villain, that he would not conform? Is 
he wiser or better than other men? He hath been, ever since, the spring of the faction. I 
am sure he hath poisoned the world with his linsey-wolsey doctrine, a conceited, stubborn, 
fanatical doo-." 

o 

After one counsel and another had been overborne by the fury of Jeffreys, Baxter 
himself took up the argument. " M}^ lord," he said, "I have been so moderate with 
respect to the Church of England, that I liave incurred the censure of many of the Dis- 
senters on that account." "Baxter for bishops ! " exclaimed the judge, "is a merrj^ con- 
ceit, indeed. Turn to it, turn to it ! " On this one of the counsel turned to a passage in 
the libel, which stated that "great respect is due to those truly called bishops amongst us." 
"Ay," said Jeffreys, "this is your Presbyterian cant; truly called to be bishops; 
that is of himself and such rascals, called the bishops of Kidderminster, and other such 
places. The bishops set apart by such factious, sniveling Presbyterians as himself; a Kid- 
derminster bishop he means, according to the saying of a late learned author, every parish 
shall maintain a tithe-pig metropolitan." 

Baxter offering to speak again, Jeffreys exploded in the following apostrophe: 
" Eichard ! Eichard ! dost thou think here to poison the court? Eichard, thou art an old 



DESCEIPTION AND NARRATIOlSr. blJ 

fellow — an old knave; thou hast written books enough to load a cart, every one as full of 
sedition, I might say treason, as an egg is full of meat. Hadst thou been whipped out of thy 
writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy. I know that thou hast a mighty party, 
and I see a great many of the brotherhood in corners, waiting to see what will become of 
their mighty don, and a doctor of your party at your elbow ; but I will crush you all. 
Come, what do you say for yourself, you old knave — come, speak up; what doth he say? 
I am not afraid of him, or of all the sniveling calves you have got about you," — alluding 
to some persons who were in tears at this scene. "Your lordship need not," said 
Baxter, " for I'll not hurt you. But these things will surely be understood one day; what 
fools one sort of Protestants are made to prosecute the other." Then lifting up his eyes 
to heaven, he said, — " I am not concerned to answer such stuff, but am ready to produce 
my writings in confutation of all this ; and my life and conversation are known to many in 
this nation." 

The jury returned a verdict of guilty, and but for the resistance of other judges, 
Jeffreys would have added whipping through the city to the sentence of imprisonment. It 
was to continue till the prisoner should have paid five hundred marks. Baxter was at that 
time in his seventieth year. A childless widower, groaning under the agonies of bodily 
pain, and reduced by former persecutions to sell all that he possessed ; he entered the 
King's Bench prison in utter poverty, and remained there for nearly two years, hopeless 
of any other abode on earth. 

But the hope of a mansion of eternal peace and love raised him beyond the reach of 
human tyranny. He possessed his soul in patience. Wise and good men resorted to his 
prison, and brought back greetings to his distant friends, and maxims of piety and 
prudence. Happy in the review of a well-spent life, and still happier in the prospect of its 
speedy close, his spirit enjoyed a calm for which his enemies might have well exchanged 
their mitres and their thrones. The altered policy of the court restored him for awhile to 
the questionable advantage of bodily freedom. But age, sickness and persecution had done 
their work. In profound lowliness, with a settled reliance on the Divine mercy, and 
breathing out benedictions on those who encircled his dying bed, he soon passed away from 
a life of almost unequaled toil and suffering to a new condition of existence. 

James Stephen. 

,4,, i^s^ — .6, 

THE SHIPWRECK. 

T half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, And the sea yawned round her like a hell, 

spars, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, 

1^^ And all things, for a chance, had been cast Like one who grapples with his enemy, 

U loose. And strives to strangle him before he die. 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 

For yet they strove, although of no great use. And first a universal shriek there rushed. 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars; Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews; Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed. 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

And going down head-foremost— sunk, in short. Of billows; but at intervals there gushed. 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ; ^ solitary shriek - the bubbling cry 

Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave; q^ ^^^^^^ ^^.^^^ swimmer in his agony. 
'ITien some leaped overboard, with dreadful yell. 

As eager to anticipate their grave; Lord Byron. 



51(^ 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE FLOOD OF YEAES. 



^^P MIGHTY band from an exhaustless urn 
^|k| Pours forth the never-euding Flood of Years 
-■''&y\ Among the Nations. How the rushing waves 
ii Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge. 
And there alone, is Life; the Present there 
Tosses and foams and fills the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are the}' who toil. 
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy hind — 
Woodman and delver with the spade — are there. 
And bus}' artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on tlie mounting billow seen — 
The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
There groups of revelers, whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile. 
And as they raise their flowing cups to touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 
From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 
Up to the sight long tiles of armed men. 
That hurry to the cliarge through tlnme and smoke. 
The torrent bears thenr under, whelmed and hid. 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 
Down go the steed and rider; the plumed chief 
Sinks with his followers; the head that wears 
The imperial diadem goes down beside 
The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 
A funeral train the torrent sweeps away. 
Bearers and bier and mourners. Bj' the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing. 
And women weep aloud; the lloods roll on; 
The wail is stifled, and the sobbing group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout — 
The cry of an applauding multitude 
Swayed by some lond-tongued orator who wields 
The living mass as if he were its soul! 
The waters choke the shout and all is still. 
Lo, next, a kneeling crowd, and one who s[)reads 
The hands in prayer! the engulfing wave overtakes 
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
To beautj'; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
A painter stands, and sun.shine at his touch 
Gathers upon the canvas, and life glows; 
A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
Munnui'S his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 
Strikes them and flings them under while their tasks 
Are j'ct unflni.«hed. See a mother smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her again — 
The torrent wrests it from her arms; she .«hrieks. 
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 



A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 
To glistening peai'ls; two lovers, hand in hand. 
Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 
Flings them apart; the youth goes down; the maid 
With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes. 
Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 
An ag^d man succeeds; his bending form 
Sinks slowly; mingling with the sullen stream 
Gleam the white locks and then are seen no more. 

Lo. wider grows the stream; a sea-like flood 
Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces 
Crumble before it; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent, see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost, their verj' languages 
Stifled and never to be uttered more. 

I pause and tin-n mj' eyes, and, looking back. 
Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see 
The silent Ocean of the I'ast, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and hull 
Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipers. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o"erturued, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods. 
Foundations of old cities and long streets 
Where never fall of human feet is heard 
Upon the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels far within 
The sleei)ing waters, diamonds, sardonyx. 
Ruby arul topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust; and all around. 
Strewn on the waters of that silent sea. 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from fair brows by loving hands, and scrolls 
O'erw ritteu — haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship — and fair pages flung 
Fre.sh from the jjrinter's engine. There they lie 
A moment and then sink away from sight. 

I look and the quick tears are in my eyes. 
For I behold, in every one of these, 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrow, telling of deai' ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and hajipy days, too brief. 
That sorrowfully CTided: and I think 
How painfully the poor heart must have beat 
In bosoms wirliout number, as the blow 
Was struck tluit slew their hope or broke their peace. 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION, 



517 



Sadly I turn, and look before, where j^et 
The flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope. 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear 
Molds from the idle air; where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch form 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, 
Long, low, and distant, where the Life that Is 
Touches the Life to Come. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it, near and nearer. It nuist pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. 

Beyond 
That belt of darkness still the years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were ovenvhelmed 
And lost to sight — all that in them was good. 
Noble and truly great and worthy of love — 



The lives of infants and ingenuous youths. 

Sages and saintly women who have made 

Their households happy — all are raised and borne 

Bj' that great curi-ent in its onward sweep. 

Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 

Around green islands, fragrant with the breath 

Of flowers that never wither. So thej' pass. 

From stage to stage, along the shining course 

Of that fair river broadening like a sea. 

As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 

They bring old friends together; hands are clasped 

In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms 

Again are folded round the child she loved 

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now. 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 

That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled 

Or broke are healed forever. In the room 

Of this grief-shadowed Present there shall be 

A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 

The heart, and never shall a tender tie 

Be broken — in whose reign the eternal Change 

That waits on growth and action shall proceed 

With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



-?s^— ©M- 




THE IISTDIAI^S. 



HERE is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our 
sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much 
which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their 
characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What 
can be more melancholy than their history? By a law of their nature, 
they seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the 
approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of 
their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are 
gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. 
Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their 
councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, 
from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance 
rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk 
whistled thro tigh the forests; and the hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the 
wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. Ihe young listened 
to the songo of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the 
scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down ; but they wept not. They 
should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared 
for the brave, beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew 
the bow. They had courage and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most 
of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If 
they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their 



618 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they 
forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidehty and generosity were 
unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. 

But where are they? Where are the villagers, and warriors, and youths; the 
sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished. They are 
consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, — nor 
famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which has eaten 
into their heart-cores — a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated — a 
poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a 
single region which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of 
the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their 
miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and faint, 
yet fearless still!" The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer 
curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white 
man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. They turn to 
take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of 
their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There 
is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not 
of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all 
utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger 
but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall 
never be repassed by them, — no; never. Yet there lies not between us and them an 
impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove further, 
not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial-srround of their race. 

Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much that we know not 
how to interpret ; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments ; much of 
apology for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with indignation ; much of doubt 
and misgivmg as to the past ; much of painful recollections; much of dark forebodings. 

Joseph Stokey. 



THE OLD WATER-WHEEL. 



ppT lies beside the river, where its marge 
^ Is black with many an old and oarless barge, 
^ And yesty filth and leafage wild and rank 
W Stagnate and beaten by the crumbling bank. 

Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill, 
It murmured, — only on the sabbath still; 
And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore 
Down the soft vale and by the winding shore. 

Sparkling around its orbed motion, flew. 
With quick fresh fall, tlie drops of dashing dew; 
Through noontide heat that gentle rain was flung. 
And verdant, round, the summer herbage si^rung. 

Now, dancing light and sounding motion cease, 
In these dark hours of cold continual peace; 



Through its black bars the unbroken moonlight flows, 
And dry winds howl about its long repose I 

And mouldering lichens creep, and mosses gray 
Cling round its arms, in gradual decay. 
Amidst the hum of men, — which doth not suit 
That shadowy circle, motionless and mute ! 

So, by the sleep of many a human heart 
The crowd of men may bear their busy part. 
Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued. 
Its noisy passions have left solitude : — 

Ah ! little can they trace the hidden ti'uth. 
"^^^u^t waves have moved it in the vale of youth! 
And little can its broken chords avow 
How once they sounded. All is silent, now! 

•TOUN RUSKIN. 



DESCRIPTION AJSTD NAERATION. 



519 



THE WRECK OP THE SHIP. 



|UT list! a low and moaning sound 
At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 
And now it reigns above, around. 
As if it called the ship along. 

The moon is sunk ; and a clouded gray 

Declares that her course is run. 

And like a god who brings the day, 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 



But gently now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o"er a mountain's side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 
The main she will traverse forever and aye. 
Many ports wiD exult at the gleam of her mast ; — 
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her 
last. 




"And like a god who brings the day 
Up mounts the glorious sun." 



Soon as his light has warmed the seas. 

From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze; 

And that is the spirit whose well-known song 

Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 

No fears hath she; her giant form 

O'er wratliful surge, through blackening storm, 

Majestically calm would go 

Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 



Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 

Are hurried o'er the deck; 

And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock. 

Her planks are torn asunder. 

And down come her masts with a reeling shock. 

And a hideous crash like thunder. 



520 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



Her sails are draggled in the brine. 

That gladdened late the skies, 

And her pennant, that kissed the fair moonshine, 

Down many a fathom lies. 




"And her pennant, that kissed the fair moonshine, 
Do^Ti many a fathom lies." 

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 
Gleamed softly from below, 



And flung a warm and sunny flush 
0"er the wreaths of mm-muring snow. 
To the coral rocks are hm-ryiug down. 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 

0. many a dream was in the ship 
An hour before her death ; 
And sights of home with sighs disturbed 
,The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
Instead of the murmm- of the sea. 
The sailor heard the humming ti'ee 
Alive through all its leaves, 
The hum of the spreading sycamore 
That grows before his cottage-door, 
And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 
'\A'ho listened with tears of sorrow and joy 
To the dangers his father had passed ; 
^\jid his wife. — by turns she wept and smiled, 
As she looked on the father of her child. 
Returned to her heart at last. 
He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll. 
And the rush of waters is in his soul. 
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 
Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces; 
The whole ship's crew are there I 
Wailings around and overhead. 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead. 
And madness and despair. 

•John Wilson (Christopher North). 



-^sQ- 



THE GLOVE AXD THE LIOXS. 



llNG Francis was a heartv Mug, and loved a De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively 



royal sport. 



dame. 



^^f?^ And one dav as his lions fought, sat looking on "^^'ith smUiug lips and sharp bright eyes, which alway 



the court: 



seemed the same : 



X The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in She thought. -The count, my lover, is brave as brave 
I their pride. ^^^ ^^ • 

I And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge. with He surely would do wondi-ous things to show his love 
one for ^hom he sighed : ^^ "^*^ ? 

And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning Kiug- ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is 

show. di^^ne; 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal I'U drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory wiU 
beasts below. t)e mine.'' 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing ^^^ ^''''PP^^ ^''^ S^"''"' ^" P'-o^^ ^i^* 1^^^' then looked 

at hun and smiled : 

ri-i 1 •» III 1 1 >,!„,-, i;i„ i^«,„,~ „ „-;„fi He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions 

Ihev bit. they glared, gave blows like beams, a ^muu ' => 

went with their paws : .^ , . , . , . •. 

-„.^, 1, • ■ 1^ 1 »-rf„i „„ .-1,^,, ^„n„ri ^., The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained 

With wallownio: might and stifled roar thev rolled on ' ^ '■ = 

^^ ° ■ his place. 

one another: „„ , , , , . , , . , . • 

n-ii 11 4.1, •» -..1, 1 1 „. „ „-,^ ;„ „ tu,,^,i^^ Ihen threw the glove, but not with love, right in the 
Till all the pit with sand and mane ■« as lu a thunder- » » 

^, ladv's face. 

ous smother ; • , , , 

The bloodv foam above the bars came whisking "By Heaven!' said Francis, -rightly done!" and he 

through the air ; '"""^ ^^"""^ '''^^^^ ^« ^=^f = 

Said Francis, then, -Faith, gentlemen, we're better "^ « love." quoth he, '-but vanit:.-. sets love a task like 

here than there." ^^''^- Leigh Hunt. 



DESCRIPTION AND XARKATION. 



521 




THE HERON. 



?HERE a bright creek into a river's side 

Shoots its keen arrow, a green heron sits 

'"ff^ Watching the sunfish as it gleaming flits 
J^ From sheen to shade. He sees the turtle 
f glide 

T Through the clear spaces of the rhythmic sti'eam 
Like some weird fancy through a poet's dream ; 
He turns his golden eyes from side to side, 



In very gladness that he is not dead, 

While the swift wind-stream ripples overhead 

And the creek's wavelets babble underneath. 
O bird! that in a cheerful gloom dost live. 

Thou art, to me a type of happy death; 
For when thou flyest away no mate will grieve 

Because a lone, sti-ange spirit vauisheth ! 

James Maurice Thompson. 



W^^W^^^^^^^9¥^f!^^W^f'^^ ^W^^^^^!^^l^^^^^^^^^^^^ 




522 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE BRIDES OF ENDEEBY; OR, THE HIGH TIDE. (1571.) 



; HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower. 

The ringers raug by two, bj' three; 
"•Pull, if ye never pulled before; 

Good ringers, pull your best,"' quoth he. 
••Plaj- uppe, play uppe, O, Boston bells I 

Play all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby." *' 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 
The Lord that sent it. He knows all; 

But in niyne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 

I sat and spun within my doore, 
My thread brake off. I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies. 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis waudereth. 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cushal"' calling 
Ere the early de\^s were falling, 
Farre away, I heard her song. 
•■Cushal Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reed}- Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the fields where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

'•Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!"' calling. 
"For the dews will sooue be falling; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit yom- cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe AVhitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head; 
Come uppe AMiitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come up Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jett\-, to the milking shed." 



Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
.\nd not a shadowe mote be scene, 

Save where full fj-ve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greene; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Satiu'day at eventide. 

The swanherds where there sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 

The shepherde lads I heard afari-e. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth; 

TUl floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that kindly message free. 

The ••Brides of Ma\is Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the skv. 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie. 
And where the lordly steeple shows, 

They sayde. ••And why should this thing be? 

^Yhat danger lowers by land or sea? 

They ring the tuue of Enderby! 

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pjTate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

ITiej' have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms be none, and pjTates flee, 
Whj- ling •The brides of Endei-by?' " 

I looked without, and lu ! my sonne 
Came riding down with might and main: 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Thau my souue's wife Elizabeth.) 

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
"God save you mother!" strait he saith, 
"Where is mv wife. Elizabeth?" 



If it be long, ay. long ago. 

AMieu I begin to think how long. 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

S\\"ift as an arrowe. sharp and sti'ong; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee). 
That ring the tune of Enderbv. 



'•Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. 

With her two bairns. I marked her long; 
And ere yon bells beganne to play 

Afar I heard her milking song. 
He looked across the grassy lea. 
To right, to left, ••Ho Enderby!"' 
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" 



DESCRIPTION A.ND NARRATION. 



523 



With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For, lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared liis crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Theu bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet, 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sat that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 
Stream from the church tower, red and high - 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

TTiatin the dark rang '• Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath 

" O come in life, or come in death! 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou did'st, thou did'st. my daughter deare: 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear, 



Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 
To mauye more than niyne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, r 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her soug, 
"Cusha! Cusha! '' all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth; 
From the meads where nielick groweth, 
When the water winding down. 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips j'ellow; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot. 
From your clovers lift the head; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 



CROQUET. 



l^gATE carved in granite, with griffins at rest, 
(^^ Arches built grandly to welcome the guest, 
^^^ Elm-guarded avenue, dim as sea-caves, 
¥ Sweep of quaint bridges and rush of clear waves 
1 Group of acacias, dark cluster of pines. 
Mansion half-whelmed in a ton-ent of vines, 
Fountain a shower of fire, lake a soft gloom. 
Garden unrolling broad ribbons of bloom. 
Lawn smooth as satin and air cool as spray, — 
Roland and Christabel deep in croquet! 



Christabel — Roland, the flower of our clan. 
Noble and bountiful — match them who can. 
He fleet and supple, j^et strong as young Saul; 
She in ten thousand the fairest of all ; 
He quick to anger, but loving and leal; 
She true and tender, though tempered like steel; 
Both of all weathers, fine dew and fierce hail. 
Ice on the mountain and flowers in the vale : 
All their still frostiness melted away. 
Just for that nonsense — a game of croquet! 



524 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 



Only croquet? Never trust to the game, 
Kindling sucti raillerj', feeding such flame-, 
Keeping such bird-bolts of laughter in flight. 
Tossing such roses of battle in siaht! 
Roland in triumph and ready to scoff, 
Christabel poising her mallet far-off. 
Ball speeding on with the wind in its wake. 
Smiting its rival and hitting the stake I 
Who is the ^ictor! Prond Roland, at bay, 
Captm'es the hand that has won at croquet. 



Xow is theh- magic enchainment complete; 
Ilaughtj-, shy Chi-istabel — far-away sweet. 
Caught in that wind from the Aidenn of souls, 
Blushes rose-bright as red snow of the poles ! 
Out of all lovers match these if j^ou can; — 
Spotless, great-hearted, the flower of our clan. 
If they should quarrel — half-right and half -wrong — 
Oaks root them deeper when breezes are strong. 
Now may Love lead them away and away, 
Through the wide Heavens, from that game of 
croquet ! 

Amanda T. Jones. 



-l3— SG 



CLIMBI]:n"G MOUl^T ALBAI^O. 





OT long ago I was slowly descending the carriage road after you leave 
Albano. It had been wild weather when I left Eome, and all across 
the Canipagna the clouds were sweeping in sulphurous blue, with 
a clap of thunder or two, and breaking gleams of sun along the 
Claudian aqueduct, lighting up its arches like the bridge of chaos. 
But as I climbed the long slope of the Alban mount, the storm 
swept finally to the north, and the noble outlines of the domes of 
Albano and the graceful darkness of its ilex grove rose against pure 
streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upper sky gradually flushing 
through the last fragments of rain-cloud, in deep palpitating azure, 
half ether and half dew. The noon-day sun came slanting down 
the rocky slopes of La Ricca, and its masses of entangled and tall 
foliage, whose autumnal tints were mixed with the wet verdure of 
a thousand evergreens, were penetrated with it as with rain. I can- 
not call it color; it was conflagration. Purple and crimson and scarlet, like the 
curtains of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing trees sank into the valley in showers of 
light, every separate leaf quivering with buoyant and burning life ; each, as it turned 
to reflect or to transmit the sunbeam, first a torch and then an emerald. Far up 
into the recesses of the valley, the green vistas, arched like the hollows of mighty 
waves of some crystalline sea, with the arbutus flowers dashed along their flanks 
for foam, and silver flakes of orange spray tossed into the air around them, breaking 
over the gray walls of rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kindling 
alternately as the weak wind lifted and let them fall. * * * * 

Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as far away? By 
no means. Look at the clouds and watch the delicate sctilpture of their alabaster 
sides, and the rounded lustre of their magnificent rolling. They are meant to be 
beheld far away : they were shaped for their place high above your head : approach 
them and they fuse into vague mists, or whirl away in fierce fragments of thunderous 
vapor. Look at the crest of the Alp from the far away plains over which its light 
is cast, whence human souls have communed with it by their myriads. It was built for 
its place in the far off sk}' : approach it, and as the sound of the voice of man dies 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



525 



away about its foundations, and the tide of human hfe is met at last by the eternal 
" Here shall thy waves be stayed," the glory of its aspect fades into blanched fear- 
fulness ; its purple walls are rent into grisly rocks, its silver fret-work saddened into 
wasting snow; the stormbrands of ages are on its breast, the ashes of its own ruin 
lie solemnly on its white raiment. 

If you desire to perceive the great harmonies of the form of a rocky mountain, 
you must not ascend upon its sides. All there is disorder and accident, or seems 
so. Retire from it, and as your eye commands it more and more, you see the 
ruined mountain world with a wider glance : behold ! dim sympathies begin to busy 
themselves in the disjointed mass ; line binds itself into stealthy fellowship with line ; 
group by group the helpless fragments gather themselves into ordered companies ; new 
captains of hosts, and masses of battalions, become visible one by one; and far away 
answers of foot to foot and of bone to bone, until the powerless is seen risen up with 
girded loins, and not one piece of all the unregarded heap can now be spared from the 
mystic whole. 

John Ruskix. 
••<»— 4-^=<>»' 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 



g CHIEFTAESr, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! 
''^f-' And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
J4 To row us o'er the feriy." 



But still as wilder blew the wind. 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men, 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 



■•' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water?" 

"01 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 

"And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together. 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 



" O haste thee, haste I " the lady cries, 
"Though tempests round us gather; 
I "11 meet the raging of the skies. 



The boat has left a stormy laud, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, O! too sti-ong for human hand, 

The. tempest gathered o'er her. 



"His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover? " 



And still they rowed amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore. 
His wrath was changed to wailing-. 



Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief — I'n* ready : 

It is not for your silver bright. 
But for vour winsome ladv : 



For sore dismaj'ed, through storm and shade. 

His child he did discover: 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 

And one was round her lover. 



" And bj' mj^ word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarrj' ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace. 
The water- wraith was shrieking; 

And in tlie scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 



" Come back! come back! "' he cried in grief, 

"Across this stormy water: 
And I "U forgive your Highland chief. 

My daugliter! — O my daughter! " 

"T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child. — 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 



526 



THE GOLDEX TEEASLTKY. 




THE BLIXD PEEACHEE. 



w T was one Sunday, as I traveled through the count}' of Orange, that mv 
eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous old wooden 
house in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having frequently seen 
such objects before, in traveling through these States, I had no difficulty 
in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. Devotion 
alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation; 
but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilder- 
ness was not the least of my motives. 

On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He 
was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a 
white linen cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all shaking 
under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was 
perfectl}^ blind. The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled pity 
and veneration ; but, ah ! how soon were all my feelings changed ! It was a day of the 
administration of the Sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our 
Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it exhausted 
long ago. Little did I suppose that, in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a 
man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had 
ever before witnessed. 

As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a 
peculiar, a more than human, solemnitj' in his air and manner, which made my blood run 
cold and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our 
Saviour: His trial before Pilate; His ascent up Calvary; His crucifixion; and His death. 
I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so 
selected, so arranged, so colored ! It was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for the 
first time in ni}^ life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every 
syllable : and eveiy heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His j^eculiar phrases had 
that foi'ce of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting 
before our eyes. ^Ve saw the upturned faces — the staring, frightful distortions of malice 
and rage; we saw the buffet. My soul kindled with a flame of indignation, and my 
hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. But when he came to touch on the 
patience, the forgiving meekness, of our Saviour; when he drew to the life His blessed 
eyes streaming in tears to heaven. His voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer 
of pardon on his enemies — " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do ! '" — 
the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, 
his utterance being entirelv obstructed bv the force of his feelings, he raised his hand- 
kerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. 

The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, 
and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had 
subsided so far as to permit him to i:)roceed. Indeed, judging b}^ the usual but falla- 
cious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of 



DESCRIPTION xVND jSTAERATION. 



527 



the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience 
down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity 
and dignity of his subject; or, perhaps, shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. 
But, no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been raj^id and 
enthusiastic. The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation 
from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God ! " I 
despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you 
could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man as well as the peculiar crisis in 
the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by 
laying such a stress on delivery. 

William Wirt. 



■^g@— Ss 




" — Built their castles of dissolving sand, 
To watch them overflowed." 



ENOCH ARDEN'S CHILDHOOD. 



[W5^-C 



[^ERE on this beach, a hundred years ago, 

Three children of three houses — Annie Lee, 
J The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
' And Philip Ray, the miller's only son. 

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad. 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, — played 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 



Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand. 
To watch them overflowed, or following u]i 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint, daily washed away. 

Alfred TENjn'SON. 



528 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUET. 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 



'v- 



^^H! what's the matter?— whafs the matter? 
^^ What is't that ails young Harry GriL, 
That evermore his teeth they chatter — 

Chatter, chatter, chatter still? 
Of waistcoats Harrj- has no lack, 

Good duffel gra_v and flannel fine ; 
He has a blanket on his back. 
And coats enough to smother nine. 

In3Iarch. December, and in July, 

"Tis all the same with Harrj' Gill; 
The neighbors tell, and tell you trulj-, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 

"Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
Eeueath the sun, beneath the moon, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still! 

Young Harry was a lusty drover — 

And who so stout of limb as he? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 

His voice was like the voice of three. 
Old Goodj' Blake was old and poor; 

Hl-fed she was, and thinlj- clad ; 
And anj^ man who passed her door 

Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling. 

And then her three hours' work at night- 
Alas I "twas hardly worth the telling — 

It would not pay for candle-light. 
Eemote from sheltering village green. 

On a hilfs northern side she dwelt, 
IVhere from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 

And hoaiy dews are slow to melt. 

Bj' the same fire to boil their pottage. 

Two poor old dames, as I have known, 
"Will often live in one small cottage ; 

But she — poor woman — housed alone. 
'Twas well enough when summer came, 

The long. warm, lightsome summer-day; 
Then at her door the canty dame 

"Would sit, as any linnet ga}'. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 

Ob, then how her old bones would shake! 
Tou would have said, if you had met her, 

'Twas a hard time for Good}- Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead; 

Sad case it was, as you maj' think, 
For very cold to go to bed. 

And then for cold not sleep a wink ! 

Oh, joy for her! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout, 

And scattered many a lustj- splinter 
And many a rotten bough about. 

Yet never had she, well or sick, 
.\s every man who knew her says, 



A pile beforehand, turf or stick. 
Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now, when the frost was past endm-ing. 

And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could anything be more alluring 

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 
And now and then, it must be said. 

When her old bones were cold aiid chill. 
She left her fire, or left her bed. 

To seek the hedge of Hany Gill. 

Is ow, Harry he had long suspected 

This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
And vowed that she should be detected, 

And he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm fire he"d go. 

And to the fields his road would take; 
And there at night, in frost and snow, 

He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley. 

Thus looking out did Harry stand; 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 

And crisp with frost the stubble-land. 
He hears a noise! — he's all awake! — 

Again ! — on tiptoe down the hill 
He softly creeps. "Tis Goody Blake ! 

She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 

Right glad was he when he beheld her! 

Stick after stick did Goodj- puU; 
He stood behind a bush of elder. 

Till she had filled her apron full. 
■\Mien with her load she turned about. 

The byway back again to take. 
He started forward with a shout, 

And si)rang upon poor Goody Blake; 

And flercelj- by the arm he took her. 

And by the arm he held her fast; 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 

And cried, "I've caught you, then, at last!" 
Then Goody, who had nothing said. 

Her bundle from her lap let fall; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she praj'ed 

To God, who is the Judge of all. 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing. 

While Harry held her by the arm — 
" God, who art never out of hearing. 

Oh, may he never more be warm ! '" 
The cold, cold moon above her head. 

Thus on her knees did Goody pray. 
Young Harrv heard what she had said. 

And. icy cold, he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill : 

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow- 
Alas! that day for Harry Gill! 



DESCRIPTION AND NARRATION. 



529 



That day he wore a riding-coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he ; 

Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the Sabbath he had three. 

-'T\vas all in vain — a useless matter — 
And blankets were about him pinned; 

Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 

And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
And all who see him saj', " 'Tis plain 



That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again." 

No word to any man he utters, 

Abed or up, to young or old; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 

"Poor Harry Gill is very cold! " 
Abed or up, bj^ night or day. 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now, think, ye farmers all, I pray. 

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 

William Wordswokth. 



-ff^SX^.^ 




" From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, 
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes." 

MOONLIGHT. 



pN part these nightly terrors to dispel, 
^ Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock nuist tell. 
Fi-om the fireside ^^■ith many a shrug he hies, 
Glad if the full-orb"d moon salute his eyes. 
And through the unbroken stillness of the night 
Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. 
With sauntering steps he climbs the distant stile, 
Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; 
There views the white-i-obed clouds in clusters driven. 
And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven; 
Low, on the utmost boundary of the sight, 
The rising vapors catch the silver light; 



Thence Fancj^ measures, as they parting fly. 
Which flj"st will throw its shadow on the eye, 
Passing the source of light; and thence away, 
Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
(In a remoter sky, still more serene) 
Others, detached in ranges through the air. 
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; 
Scattered immensely wide from east to west, 
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. 
These to the raptured ej^e, aloud proclaim 
Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting Name. 

ROliKHT BlOOMFIELD. 



530 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUKY. 




THE RIVER WYE. 



jpilVE years have passed ; five summers %vith the 
■^''^ length 

Of five long A\inters ! and again I hear 
These waters roUiug from their mountain- 
springs 
With a sweet inland murmur. Once agaia 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 
That on a \\ild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the skj'. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 



^^Tiich at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardl}' hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, 
Green to the veiy door; and Avreaths of smoke 
Sent up in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

William Wordsworth. 

)^Ss 



LOCHINVAR'S RIDE. 



^K TOtTN'G Lochinvar has come out of the West ! 
_^ Through all the wild border his steed was the 
^F best; 

Jl And save his good broadsword he weapons had 
none; 
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 
So faithful iu love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; 

He s\^'am the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But. ere he alighted at Xetherbj" gate. 

The bride had consented. — the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Xetherby hall. 
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, aud brothers, and 
all. 



Tlien spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — 
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — 
'• O come ye in peace here, or come j^e in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, j'oung Lord Lochinvar? " 

"I long wooed your daughter; — my suit you denied: 
Love swells like the Solway. but ebbs like its tide; 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, — drink one cup of wine. 
ITiere be maidens iu Scotland, more lovely by far. 
That M'ould gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup; 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lip. aud a tear in her eye; 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar. — 
"Xow tread we a measui'e! " said young Lochinvar. 



DESCEIPTIOlSr AND I^^^ARRATION. 



531 



So stately his form and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall sueh a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fui:.3, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume. 
And the bridemaidens whispered, "'twere better by 

far, 
To have matched our fair cousin with j^ouug Locli- 

iavar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 
When they reached the hall door, where the charger 

stood near; 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; — 



"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur; 
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the ISTetherby 

clan; 
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 

ran; 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea. 
But the lost bride of N"etherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war; 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE CLOSINa TEAR. 



11li|lS midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the 

winds 
The bell's deep notes are swelling. 'Tis the 

knell ' 

Of the departed year. 

No funeral train 
Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred, 
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud. 
That floats so still and placidly through heaven. 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
Young spring, bright summer, autumn's solemn form, 
And winter with his aged locks — and breathe 
In mournful cadences, that course abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year. 
Gone from the earth forever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep 
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim. 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of Life. That spectre lifts 
The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love. 
And, bending mournfully above the pale 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each bi'ow, 



Its shadow^ in each heart. In its swift course. 

It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, 

And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 

Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 

The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 

Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 

And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield 

Flashed in the light of mid-day — and the strength 

Of sei-ried hosts is shivered, and the grass. 

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 

The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came 

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 

It heralded its millions to their home 

In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time: — 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity? On, still on 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird. 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain-crag — but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink, 
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles 
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 



532 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoarj- centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
Startling the nations ; and the very stars. 
You bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
And. like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 



Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, 
To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time, 
Time the tomb -builder, holds his fierce career. 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that sti-ew his path. 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

George D. Prentice. 



THE CLOSIXG SCENE. 



rrHIX the sober realms of leafless trees. 

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, 
J4. When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gra}- barns looking from their hazy hills, 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued ; 

The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low. 
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 

His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed %\ ith gold, 
Their banners bright with ever-^' martial hue, 

Now stood like some sad. beaten host of old. 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumberous wings the vulture held its flight; 

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the light. 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, — 
Crew thrice. — and all was stiller than before; 

Silent, till some -replying warden blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest. 

Made garrulous ti-ouble round her unfledged young; 
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 

Bj^ every light wind like a censer swung; — 

"Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, 
The busj^ swallows circling ever near. — 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 
An early harvest and a plenteous year; — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east. — 
All now -was sunless, emptj'. and forlorn. 



Alone from out the stubble piped the quail. 

And croaked the ci-ow through all the dreamy 
gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 

Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud. no bloom upon the bowers; 

The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by 
night. 
The thistledown, the onlj- ghost of flowers. 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air. 
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron with monotonous ti'ead 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 

Sat. like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked with her. 

Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; 
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 

Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her countrj' summoned, and she gave her all; 

And twice AVar bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall : 

Ee-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him who. to his sire and countiy true, 
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
Like the low murnun- of a hive at noon; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
Bi'eathed through her lij^s a sad and trennilous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped ; her head was bowed ; 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud. 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 
Thomas Buchanan Read. 



Part VIII. 



^i^c^0 unh P^r00n0. 



sm^^ 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 




" The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow." 



YARROW UNYISITED. 



|ROM Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unraveled ; 
'?&" Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
^ And with the Tweed had traveled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome marrow," 
" WTiate'er hetide, we'll ttu-n aside, 
And see the braes of Yarrow." 



" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town. 

"Who have been buying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own : 

Each maiden to her dwelling! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! 

But we ■will down\\-ard with the Tweed. 

iSTor turn aside to Yarrow. 

53.5 



536 



THE GOLDElSf TREASURY. 



'' There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites sing in chorus; 

There's pleasant Teviotdale, a laud 

Made blithe with plough and harrow: 

Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of Yarrow? 



" Let beeves and homebred kiue partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
The swan on still Saint Marj^'s Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow! 
We will not see them; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough, if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 



" What's Yarrow but a river bare, 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As w^orthy of your wonder." 

Strange words the}' seemed of slight and scorn; 

My true-love sighed for sorrow. 

And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 



" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past. 
We'll keep them, winsome marrow! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 



" O, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open strath. 
We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 



" If care with freezing years should come, 
And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loath to stir from home. 
And yet be melancholy, — 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny holms of Yarrow I " 

William Wordsworth. 



jy-^XL^ 



YARROW VISITED. 



sXD is this Yarrow ! — this the stream 
Of which mjr fancy cherished 
So faithfully, a waking dream? 
An image that hath perished ! 
O that some minstrel's harp were near, 
To utter notes of gladness. 
And chase this silence from the air. 
That tills my heart with sadness. 



WTiere was it that the famous flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchauce was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning. 

The water-wraith ascended thrice, 

And gave his doleful warning. 



Yet why? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes bj' greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 



Delicious is the lay that sings 

The haunts of happy lovers. 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leaf\' grove that covers : 

And pit}' sanctifies the verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 



A blue sk)' bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Thougli not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination. 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 



PLACES AND PEESONS. 



537 



That region left, the vale unfolds 

Kich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a ruin hoary! 

The shattered front of Newark's towers. 

Renowned in border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear awaj' in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss. 

It promises protection 

To studious ease, and generous cares. 

And every chaste affection! 

How sweet on this autumnal day, 
The wild wood's fruits to gather. 
And on my true-love's forehead plant 
A crest of blooming heather! 



And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
'Twere no offence to reason ; 
The sober hills thus deck their brows 
To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone. 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 

Thy ever youthful \\aters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes mj' lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the heights, 
They melt — and soon must vanish; 
One hour is theirs, no more is mine- 
Sad thought! which I would banish. 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
"Will dwell with me — to heighten joy. 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

William Wordsworth. 



YARROW STREAM. 



|HY'' banks were boiinie. Yarrow stream. 
When first on thee I met my lover ; 
Thy banks how dreary. Yarrow sti-eam, 
J4 When now thy waves his body cover ! 



His mother from the window looked. 
With all the longing of a mother; 
His little sister, weeping, walked 
The greenwood path to meet her brother. 



For ever now, O Yarrow stream. 
Thou art to me a stream of soitow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 
Behold my love — the flower of Yarrow! 



They sought him east, they sought him west, 
They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
They only saw the clouds of night — 
They only heard the roar of Yarro\\' ! 



He promised me a milk-white horse, 
To bear me to his father's bowei's; 
He promised me a little page. 
To squire me to his father's towers. 



No longer from thy window look — 
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid — 
Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 



He promised me a wedding-ring. 
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow: 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 
Alas ! a watery grave in Yarrow ! 



No longer seek him east or west. 
No longer search the forest thorough, 
For, murdered in the night so dark. 
He lies a lifeless corpse in Yarrow! 



Sweet were his words when last we met. 
My passion I as freely told him ; 
Clasped in his arms, I little thought 
That I should never more behold him. 



The tears shall never leave my cheek. 
No other youth shall be my marrow; 
I'll seek thy body in tlie stream. 
And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow! 



Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost — 
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow! 



•The tear did never leave her cheek. 
No other youth became her marrow; 
She found his bodj' in the stream. 
And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. 

John Logan. 



538 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



THE DESEBTED VILLAGE. 



r-(Bo 



I^WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
^^ Where health and plentj' cheered the laboring 

1 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of mv youth, when eveiy sport could please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene I 
How often have I paused on every charm, 



Ey holding out to tire each other do-wn; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

■^Tiile secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong loolis of love, 

The mati-on's glance that would those looks reprove, 

TTiese were thy charms, sweet village! sports like 

these. 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. 
These were thy charms,— but all these charms are fled I 




" Tlie sheltered cot, the cultivated tarn 



The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busj' mill. 

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blessed the coming daj^, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 



Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; 
Amidst thj^ bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thj- green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; 
N'o more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall. 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 



PLACES AND PEESONS. 



539 



111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 



But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 

Those gentle houi-s that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene. 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green,— 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 



Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's 
power. 




"No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way.' 



A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When everj' rood of ground maintained its man; 
For hiin light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
His best companions, innocence and health; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 



Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 

And, many a year elapsed, return to view 

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 

Remembrance wakes, Mith all her busy train. 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 



540 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



lu all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
1 still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me do-mi', 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pvu'sue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return,^ and die at home at last. 



There, as I i:»assed with careless step and slow, 
, The mingling notes came softened from below; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The plaj^ul children just let loose from school; 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering nind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
TTiese all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot- way tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 




"Here as I take my solitary rounds.'' 



O blest retirement! friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labor with an age of ease; 
Who quits a world where sti'ong temptations try, 
And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
No surly porter stands in guilt^v state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 



All but yon widowed, solitaiy thing. 

That feeblj' bends besides the plashy spring; 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 

She only left of all the harmless ti-ain. 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, -sNhere once the garden smiled, 
And still where manj' a garden-flower grows wild; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godlj^ race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By docti-ines fashioned to the varying hour; 



PLACES AJSTD PERSONS. 



541 



Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched thau to rise. 
His house was Iviiowu to all the vagrant train. 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 
The loug-remenibered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; 
But in his duty i:)romi3t at every call. 
He watched and wept, he praj^ed and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art. reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his conti'ol, 
Despair and anguish fled the stiniggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling A\retch to raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
E'en children followed with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofltably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school; 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 



Full well they laughed with countei-feited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew, 

'T was certain he could write, and cipher too; 

Lands he could measure, times and tides pi'esage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; 

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill. 

For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still. 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around : 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. — 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts in- 
spired. 
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place, — 
The whitewashed wall; the nicely sanded floor; 
The varnished clock that ticked behind the door; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use ; 
The twelve good rules ; the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; 
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly ti'ain ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 



542 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 

The soul adopts, and owns theu- lu-st-born sway; 

Lightl}' they frolic o"er the vacant mind, 

Uneuvied, unmolested, unconlined : 

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 

In these, ere triliers half their wish obtain. 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 

And, e"en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to ti'uth, ye statesmen, who sm-vey 
The rich man's joj's increase, the i^oor's decay, 
"Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide Avith loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards e"en beyond the miser's \Aish abound. 
And rich men Hock from all the world around. 



But when those charms are past, —for charms are 

fi-ail, — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of di-ess ; 
Thus fares the laud by luxury betrayed. 
In natm-e's simplest cbanns at lirst arraj-ed. 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 
While, scoui-ged by famine from the smiling 

land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms. — a garden and a grave. 

■Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride"? 
If to some common's fenceless limits straj^ed 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 




"Down where yon anchoring- vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every ffale : 
Downward they move, a melanchoTv band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all' the strand." 



Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 

That leaves our useful products still the same. 

Xot so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 

Takes up a space that many poor supplied; 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that \\Taps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their gi-owth : 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the gi-een; 

Around the world each needfid product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies : 

AMiile thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, 

In barren splendor feebly waits the fad. 

As some fair female unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
Xor shares with art the triumph of her eyes. 



Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, — what waits him there? 
To see i^rofusion that he must not share : 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury and thin mankind; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade : 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- 
play. 
ITiere the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly decked, admits tbe gorgeous train; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
"ITie rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy I 
Sure these denote one universal joy I 



PLACES AND PEESONS. 



543 



Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 

Now lost to aU : her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless horn- 
When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murnuu-s to their woe. 



Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting 
day 
That called them from their native walks away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasm-e past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
But for himself in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 




Winter wraps the Polar world in snow." 



Far different there from all that charmed before. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore, — 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene. 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
34 



O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grbwn, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldly woe ; 
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 

sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 



544 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



Downward they move, a melancholy baud, 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 

Contented toil, and hospitable care, 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there; 

And piety with wishes placed above, 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sw'eet Poetrj% thou loveliest maid. 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 

To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; 

Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 

That source of all my bliss and all my woe, 

Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel. 



Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
Farewell; and O, where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
WTiether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice prevailing over time, 
jSedress the rigors of the inclement clime; 
Aid slighted truth \\ith thj' persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 




'HO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
With its roses the brightest that earth ever 
^ gave, 

Jj Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear 
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their 
wave? 

0, to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the lake 
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, 
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take 
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming 

half shown. 
And each hallow^s the hour by some rites of its own. 
Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 
Here the Magaian his urn full of perfume is swing- 
ing, 
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
ringing. 



Or to see it by moonlight, — when meUowly shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; 
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars. 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars 
Is broken bj' laughs and light echoes of feet 
From the cool shining walks where the young people 

meet. 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks. 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. 
AVIien the spirit of fragrance is up with the day. 
From his harem of night-flowers stealing away; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover 
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over. 
AVhen the east is as warm as the light of first hopes. 

And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled. 
Shines in through the mountainous portal that ojies, 

Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 

Thomas Moore. 



-.o.-=^.^.<>.^ 



VENICE. 



jM:: 



[INHERE is a glorious Citj^ in the Sea. 

The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets. 
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed 
Clings to the marble of her palaces. 
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro. 
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, 
Invisible ; and from the land we went. 
As to a floating City, — steering in, 
And gliding up her streets as in a dream. 
So smoothly, silently. — by many a dome 
Mosque-like, and manj' a stately portico, 
The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 



By man.y a pile in more than Eastern splendor, 

Of old the residence of merchant kings; 

The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them. 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

As though the wealth w'ithin them had run o'er. 



A few in fear. 
Flying away from him whose boast it was 
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, 
Gave birth to Venice. Like the waterfowl. 
They built their nests among the ocean waves; 



PLACES AND PEKSOXS. 



545 



And where the sands were shifting, as the wind 

Blew from the north, the south; where they that came 

Had to make sure the ground they stood upon. 

Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, 

A vast Metropolis, with glittering spires, 

With theatres, basilicas adorned ; 

A scene of light and glory, a dominion 

That has endured the longest among men. 

And whence the talisman by which she rose 
Towering? 'T was found there in the barren sea. 
Want led to Enterprise; and, far or near, 
WTio met not the Venetian? — now in Cairo ; 
Ere j-et the Califa came listening to hear 
Its bells approaching from the Red Sea coast; 
Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, 
In converse with the Persian, with the Russ, 
The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving 
Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad, 
Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love 
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, 



When in the rich bazaar he saw displayed 
Treasures from unknown climes, away he went, 
And, traveling slowly upward, drew erelong 
From the well-head supplying all below ; 
Making the Imperial City of the East 
Herself his tributary. 

Thus did Venice rise, 

Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came. 
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet 
From India, from the region of the Sun, 
Fragrant with spices, — that a way was found, 
A channel opened, and the golden stream 
Turned to enrich another. Then she felt 
Her strength departing, and at last she fell. 
Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed ; 
She who had stood yet longer than the longest 
Of the Four Kingdoms, — who, as in an Ark, 
Had floated down amid a thousand wrecks. 
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New. 

Samuel Rogers. 




THE ORIENT. 



|NOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Ai-e emblems of deeds that are done in their 
clime. 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 
turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with per- 
fume. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gfil in her bloom ! 



Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. 
And the voice of the nightingale never is unite ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In color though vai'ied. in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
'T is the clime of the East; 'tis the laud of the Sun, — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
O, wild as the accents of. lover's farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which 
they tell ! 

LOKI) B^IJON. 

>X^^>o<o 



STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
M: I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 



A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles! 



546 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT. 



jHE stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
I linger yet, with nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitaiy loveliness 
I learned the language of another world. 
1 do remember me, that in my youth. 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall. 
Midst the chief relies of almighty Rome. 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Csesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. 
Of distant sentinel's the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cyijresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

.4,, — 



Within a bowshot, — where the Caesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through leveled battlements, 

And frsvines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection. 

While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls 

G-rovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 

Which softened down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and filled up 

As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries. 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which was not, till the place, 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. 

Lord Byron. 

s-SiQ^ ■*• 




ROME. 



pp AM in Rome! Oft as the morning ray 
sAs Visits these eves, waking at once I cry, 
^ Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? 
^ And from within a thrilling voice replies, 
f Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 
Rush on my mind, a thousand images; 
And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long 
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world; 
The mighty vision that the prophets saw. 
And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least, 



The lowliest village (what but here and there 
A reed-roofed cabin by a river-side?) 
Grew into everj-thing; and, year by j^ear. 
Patiently, fearlessly working her way 
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, 
Not like the merchant with his merchandise, 
Or traveler with staff and scrip exploring, 
But hand to hand and foot to foot through hosts, 
Through nations numberless in battle array. 
Each behind each, each, when the other fell. 
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all. 

Samuel Rogers. 



PLACES Am) PEESONS. 



547 



MELROSE ABBEY. 



|F thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
i Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 
® For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
When the broken arches are black in night, 
And each shafted oriel glimmers white : 
When the cold light's uncertain shower 
Streams on the ruined central tower; 
When buttress and buttress, alternately. 



^-^(s-^ 



Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 

When silver edges the imagery. 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 

When distant Tweed is heard to rave. 

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 

Then go — but go alone the while — 

Then view St. David's ruined pile; 

And, home returning, soothlj^ swear. 

Was never scene so sad and fair ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 




FAIR GREECE ! SAD RELIC OF DEPARTED WORTH. 



|AIR Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy fallen children forth, 
And long accustomed bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 



The hopeless warriors of a willing doom; 

In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait, — 

O, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 

Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the 

tomb? 

Lord Byron. 



-^-3-^'i 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 



».<».|0 stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — 
iS^k, The ship was as still as she could be ; 

Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 

Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape bell. 

The Holy Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung. 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 



The sun in heaven was shining gay, — 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck. 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the bell and float : 

Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat; 

And row me to the Inchcape rock. 

And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 



548 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape rock they go : 
Sir Ralph beut over from the boat, 
And cut the warning bell from the Jioat. 

Down sank the beU with a gurgling sound; 

The bubbles rose, and burst around. 

Quoth Sir Ealph. •• The next who comes to the 

rock 
Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."' 

Sir Ealph. the rover, sailed away. — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now. grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 



Quoth Sir Ealph, -It wlU be lighter soon. 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

"Canst hear," said one, •• the breakers roar? 
For yonder, methinks. should be the shore. 
Xow where we are 1 cannot tell. 
But I \\-ish we could hear the Inchcape bell.'* 

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along; 
Tm the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
O Christ: it is the Inchcape rock: 

Sir Ealph. the rover, tore his hair; 
He cursed himself in his despair. 




"Without either sign or sonnd of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock." 



So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale aU day; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is thev see no land. 



The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But ever in his dying fear 
One dreadful sound he seemed to hear. — 
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell 
The Devil below was ringing his kneU. 

Robert Southet. 



-^33-e^ 



CAPE HATTEEAS. 



I^HE "Wind King from the Xorth came down. 
Nor stopped by river, mount or to%vn ; 
'fp But. like a boisterous god at play. 
J"' Resistless, bounding on his way. 

He shook the lake and tore the wood. 



And flapped his wings in merry mood. 
Xor furled them, till he spied afar 
The white caps flash on Hatteras bar. 
Where fierce Atlantic landward bowls 
O'er treacherous sands and hidden shoals. 



PLACES AND PEESONS. 



549 



He paused, then wreathed his horn of cloud, 
And blew defiance long and loud : 
"Come up! come up, thou torrid god, 

That nil'st the Southern sea! 
Ho ! lightning-eyed and thunder-shod, 

Come wrestle here with me! 
As tossest thou the tangled cane, 
I 'R hurl thee o'er the boiling main! 



He drew his lurid legions forth. 

And sprang to meet the white-plumed North. 

Can mortal tongue in song convey 
The fury of that fearful fray? 
How ships were splintered at a blow, 
Sails shivered into shreds of snow. 
And seamen hurled to death below! 




" That lone hulk stands 

Embedded in thy yellow sands.'' 



"Come up! come up, thou torrid god, 
Thou lightning-eyed and thunder-shod. 

And wrestle here with me! " 
'T was heard and answered : "Lo! I come 

From azure Carribee, 
To di'ive thee cowering to thy home. 
And melt its walls of frozen foam." 
From every isle and mountain dell. 
From plains of pathless chaparral, ' 
From tide-built bars, where sea-birds dwell. 



Two gods commingling, bolt and blast, 
The huge waves on each other cast. 
And bellowed o'er the raging waste; 
Then sped, like harnessed steeds, aiar, 
That drag a shattered battle-car 
Amid the midnight din of war! 

False Hatteras! when the cyclone came. 
Thy waves leapt up with hoarse acclaim 
And ran and wrecked yon argosy ! 



550 



THE GOLDE]^ TEEASUKY. 



Fore'er nine sank! that lone hulk stands 
Embedded in thy yellow sands. — 
An hundi-ed hearts in death there stilled. 
And yet its ribs, with corpses filled. 
Are now caressed by thee ! 

You lipless skull shall speak for me, 
'•This is the Golgotha of the sea! 
And its keen hunger is the same 
In winter's frost or summer's flame! 
\Mien life was young, adventure sweet, 
I came with Walter Ealeigh"s fleet. 
But here my scattered bones have lain 
And bleached for ages by the main ! 



Though lonely once, sti-ange folk have come. 
Till peopled is my barren home. 
Enough are here. Oh, heed the cry. 
Ye white- winged strangers sailing by! 
The bark that lingers on this wave 
Will tind its smiling but a grave ! 
Then, tardy mariner, tm-n and flee, 
A myriad wi-ecks are on thj- lee ! 
With swelling sail and sloping mast, 
Accept kind Heaven's propitious blast! 
O ship, sail on ! O ship, sail fast. 
Till, Golgotha's quicksands being past, 
Thou gain'st the open sea at last! " 

JOSIAH W. HOLDEN. 



A VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD. 



.^. 



S^MBLEM of eternity, 

Unbeginning, endless sea ! 
Let me launch my soul on thee. 

Sail, nor keel, nor helm, nor oar, 

"Need I. ask I. to explore 

Thine expanse from shore to shore. 



Eager fancy, unconfined. 
In a voyage of the mind. 
Sweeps along thee like the wind. 

Here a breeze, I skim thv plain ; 
There a tempest, pour amain 
Thunder, lightning, hail, and rain. 




"The West Indies I behold. 



By a single glance of thought. 

The whole realm 's before me brotight, 

Like the universe, from nought. 

AC thine aspects now I view. 

Ever old, j^et ever new, 

— Time nor tide thy power subdue. 

All thy voices now I hear ; 

Sounds of gladness, grandeur, fear, 

Meet and mingle in mine ear. 

All thy wonders are revealed. 
Treasures hidden in thy field. 
From the birth of nature sealed. 



Where the sm'ges never roll 
Roimd the undiscovered pole. 
Thence set out. my venturous soul! 

See o'er Greenland, cold and wild. 

Rocks of ice eternal piled, 

— Yet the mother loves her child. 

Next on lonely Labrador, 

Let me hear the snow-storms roar. 

Blinding, burying, all before. 

Yet even here, in glens and coves, 
Man the heir of all things roves. 
Feasts and fights, aud laughs and loves. 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



551 



But a brighter vision breaks 
O'er Cauadian woods and lakes, 

— These my spirit soon forsakes. 

Land of exiled Liberty. 

Where our fathers once were free. 

Brave New England ! hail to thee ! 

The West Indies I behold, 
Like the Hesperides of old, 

— Trees of life -with fruits of gold. 

South America expands 
Forest- mountains, river-lands. 
And a nobler race demands. 

And a nobler race arise. 

Stretch their limbs, unclose their eyes, 

Claim the earth, and seek the skies. 

Gliding through Magellan's Sti-aits, 
Where two oceans ope their gates. 
What a glorious scene awaits I 




" South America expands." 

The immense Pacific smiles. 
Round ten thousand little isles, 
— Haunts of violence and wiles. 



" The immense Pacific smiles." 

But the powers of darkness yield, 
For the Cross is in the field. 
And the light of life revealed. 

North and West, receding far 
From the evening's downward star, 
Now I mount Aurora's car : — 

Pale Siberia's deserts shun. 

From Kamschatka's storm-cliffs run, 

South and east, to meet the sun. 

Jealous China, dire Japan, 
With bewildered eyes I scan, 

— lliey are but dead seas of man. 

Lo ! the eastern Cyclades, 
Phoenrx-uests and sky-blue seas 

— But I tarry not with these. 

Pass we drear New Holland's shoals, 
^Miere no ample river rolls, 

— World of unawakened souls ! 

Either India next is seen. 

With the Ganges stretched between ; 

— Ah! what horrors here have been! 



552 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



By the Gulf of Persia sail, 
AVTiere the true-love nightingale 
Woos the rose in everj- vale. 




"Jealous China, dire Japan." 

Though Arabia charge the breeze 
With the incense of her trees, 
On I press through southern seas. 

Cape of storms, thy spectre fled, 
See, the angel Hope, instead. 
Lights from heaven upon thine head; 

And where Table Mountain stands. 
Barbarous hordes from desert sands, 
Bless the sight with lifted hands. 

St. Helena's dungeon-keep. 
Scowls defiance o'er the deep; 
There a warrior's relics sleep. 

■yVho he was and how he fell, 

Europe. Asia, Afric. tell : 

— On that theme all time shall dwell. 

Hercules ! thy pillars stand, 
Sentinels of sea and land! 
Cloud-capt Atlas towers at hand. 



Where when Cato's word was fate. 
Fell the Carthaginian state. 
And where exiled Marius sate, — 

r^Iurk the dens of caitiff Moors; 
Hal the pirates seize their oars. 
—Haste we from the accursed shores. 

Egypt's hieroglyphic realm 

Other floods than Nile's o"er\\helni. 

— Slaves turned despots hold the hehn. 

.Tudah's cities are forlorn, 
Lebanon and Carmel shorn, 
Zion trampled down with scorn. 

Greece, thine ancient lamp is spent; 
Thou art thine own monument; 
But the sepulchre is rent. 

Italy, thy beauties shroud 
In a gorgeous evening cloud ; 
Thy refulgent bead is bowed. 

Rome in ruins lovely still, 

On her Capitolian hill. 

Bids thee, mourner, weep thy till. 



'Either India next is seen.' 



PLACES AXD PERSONS. 



553 



Splendid realm of old romance, 

Spain, thy tower-crowned crest advance, 

Grasp the shield and couch the lance. 



Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay; 

Germany, beware the day 

When thy schools again bear sway. 




" Though Arabia charge the breeze." 



Lusitania, from the dust. 

Shake thy locks — thy cause is just; 

Strike for freedom, strike and trust. 



ISTow to thee, to thee I fly, 
Fairest isle beneath the sky, 
To my heart, as in mine eye. 




Sweep by Holland like the blast." 



Sweep by Holland like the blast. 
One quick glance at Denmark cast, 
Sweden, Eussia, — all are past. 



I have seen them, one by one, 
Eveiy shore beneath the sun. 
And my voyage now is done. 



While I bid them all be blest, 
Britain is my home, my rest; 
— Mine owtj land! I love thee best. 

James Montgomekt. 



554 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUIiY. 



ON LEAVING THE WEST. 



pAHEWELL, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes 1 
ifpl Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, 
^l* Haunted by paths like those that Poussin 
f knew, 

! When after his aU gazers' eyes he drew : 
I go — and if I never more may steep 
An eager heart in your enchantments deep, 



A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, 
Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, 
And through its life new-born om- lives have been. 
Once more, farewell — a sad, a sweet farewell; 
And if I never must behold you more, 
In. other worlds I will not cease to tell 
The rosary I here have nimibered o'er; 




Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 

Be not exacting^ thou hast lived one day — 

Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 

Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, 

"\M3ere nothing checked the bold j'et gentle wave, 

\Miere naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 



And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear. 
And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 
And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear. 
Shall dew their stony glances with a tear. 
If I but catch one echo from your spell : 
And so farewell— a grateful, sad farewell! 

Margaret Fdli.ee. 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



555 




BOIsrAPAETE. 



E is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which 
towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the 
glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he 
sat upon the throne, a sceptred hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his 
own originality. A mind bold, independent, and decisive — a will 
despotic in its own dictates — an energy that distanced expedition, and 
a conscience pliable to every touch of interest — marked the outline of 
this extraordinary character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, 
in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. 

Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every 
energy of a people who acknowledge no superior, he commenced his 
course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity ! With no friend but 
his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the list where rank, and wealth, 
and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of 
destiny. He knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — 
he worshiped no God but ambition — and, with an eastern devotion, he knelt at the shrine 
of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was 
no opinion that he did not promulgate: in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the Crescent; 
for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross ; the orphan of St. Louis, he became 
the adopted child of the Republic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of 
the throne and tribune he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he 
imprisoned the Pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and, in the name 
of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the 
Csesars. Through this pantomime of policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. 
At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories 
took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, changed 
places with the rapidity of a drama. 

Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory — his flight from Egypt 
confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. But, if his fortune was 
great, his genius was transcendent ; decision flashed upon his counsels ; and it was the 
same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects his combinations appeared perfectly 
impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable ; but, in his hands, simplicity marked their 
development, and success vindicated their adoption. His person partook the character of 
his mind — if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field. 
Nature had no obstacle that he did not surmount — space no opposition that he did not 
spurn; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Ai-abian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed 
proof against jieril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The whole continent trembled at 
beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism 
bowed to the pi'odigies of his performance ; romance assumed the air of history ; nor was 
there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a 
subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the 
visions of antiquity became common-places in his contemplation ; kings were his people — 



556 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



nations were his outposts; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and 
churches, and cabinets, as if they were titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! Amid all 
these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field or 
in the drawing-room — with the mob or the levee — wearing the elacobin bonnet or the iron 
crown — banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg — dictating peace on a raft to the 
Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic — he was still the same 
military despot ! 

In this wonderful combination, his affectations of literature must not be omitted. 
The jailer of the press, he affected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he 
encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors and the murderer of printers, he yet 
pretended to the protection of learning ! Such a medley of contradictions, and, at the 
same time, such an individual consistency^ were never united in the same character. A 
royalist, a republican, and an emperor — a Mohammedan, a Catholic, and a patron of the 
synagogue — a subaltern and a sovereign — a traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an 
infidel — he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original — 
the sam6 mysterious, incomprehensible self — the man without a model, and without a 
shadow. 

Charles Phillips. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



f-^^URY the Great Duke 
4^^M With an empire's lamentation! 
'fp Let ns bury the Great Duke 
J4 To the noise of the mourning of a might}' 
nation. 
Mourning when tlieir leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ! 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 

As fits a universal woe. 

Let the long, long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow: 

The last great Englishman is low ! 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
No more in soldier-fashion Avill he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the sti-eet. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead! 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good! 



Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 

Y''et clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest, yet -svith least pretense, 
Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 

lu his simplicity' sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew. 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true. 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

"V^'^lich stood four-square to aU the winds that 

blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er: 
The great world-victor's victor will be seen no 

more. 

Peace ! his triumph will be sung 

By some j'et unmolded tongue. 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children climg : 

O peace ! it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung : 

Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



557 



More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 

"VVTiom we see not we revere : 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humilitj'- 
As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler woi-k to do 
Thau when he fought at Waterloo, 
And victor he must ever be. 

For though the Giant Ages heave the hill, 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 



Though world on world in myriad myriads roll 
Eound us, each with different powers 
And other forms ot life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush! the "Dead March"' wails in the people's ears: 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: 
The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears : 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

He is gone who seemed so great — 

Gone; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state. 
And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
But speak no more of his renown; 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



.0.^-^=0.. — 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 



a|pi3 MIST was driving down the British Channel ; 
The day was just begun; 
And through the window-panes, on floor and 
panel. 

Streamed the I'ed autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and ripiDling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hlthe, and Dover, 

Wer^ all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over 

When the fog cleared awaj^ 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions. 
Their cannon, through the night. 

Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance 
The sea-coast opposite ; 

And now they roared, at drum-beat, from their sta- 
tions 

On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations. 

That all was well! 

And doM'n the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the warden 

And lord of the Cinque Ports. 



Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure. 

Awaken with their call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast. 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal 

Be seen upon his post! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed. 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall has scaled ! 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, — 

The dark and silent room; 
And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to pai-ley or dissemble, 

But smote the warden hoar — 
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 
The sun rose bright o'erhead, — 

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
That a great man was dead! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



558 



THE GOLDEif TREASURY. 



THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 



l^lpHERE is the grave of Sir Artliur 0"KeUjTi? 
^J^ "VYhere may tlie grave of that good man be? — 
^^0^ By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hel- 
vellyn, 



<r 



Under the twigs of a young birch-tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 



And i-ustled its leaves in the fall of the year, 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. 
The knighfs bones are dust, 
And his good sword rust ; — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

SA3ILTEL Taylor Coleridge. 




COLUMBUS. 



.,1^ 



|E was a man whom danger could not daunt, 
Nor sophishy perplex, nor pain subdue, 
A stoic, reckless of the worhPs vain taunt, 
And steeled the path of honor to pursue ; 
So, when by all deserted, still he knew 
How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 
Sedition, schooled with equal ej'e to view 
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 



But when he saw that promised land arise 

In all its rare and bright varieties. 

Lovelier than fondest fancy ever ti-od; 

Then softening nature melted in his eyes ; 

He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God; 

And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod ! 

Sir Aubrey De Veke. 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



559 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 



ij^OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
^^k As his corse to the rampart we hurried : 
"^p Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
J-L O'er the g-rave where our hero we buried. 

f We buried him darkl)' at dead of night, 
1 The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



"We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger ^\•ould tread o'er his 
head. 
And we far away on the biUow. 

Lightly they "11 talk of the spirit that's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 
From the tield of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone- 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

Charles Wolfe. 



GALILEO. 






jjpHEEE are occasions in life in which a great mind lives years of rapt enjoyment in a 
moment. I can fancy the emotions of Galileo when, lirst raising the newh-con- 
structed telescope to the heavens, he saw fulfilled the grand prophecy of Coper- 
nicus, and beheld the planet Venus, crescent like the moon. 
I" It was such another moment as that, when the immortal printers of Mentz and 

I Strasburg received the first copy of the Bible into their hands, the work of their 
divine art; like that, when Columbus, through the gray dawn of the 12th of October, 
1492, beheld the shores of San Salvador; like that, when the law of gravitation first 
revealed itself to the intellect of Newton; like that, when Franklin saw, b}^ the stiffening 
fibres of the hempen cord of his kite, that he held the lightning in his grasp; like that, 
when Leverrier received back from Berlin the tidings that the predicted planet was found. 
Yes, noble Galileo, thou art right, "It does move." Bigots may make thee recant it, 
but it moves, nevertheless. Yes, the earth moves, and the planets move, and the mighty 
waters move, and the great sweeping tides of air move, and the empires of men move, and 
the world of thought moves, ever onward and upward, to higher facts and bolder theories. 
The Inquisition may seal thy lips, btit they can no more stop the progress of the great 
truth propounded by Copernicus, and demonstrated by thee, than they can stop the 
revolving earth. 

Close, now, venerable sage, that sightless, tearful eye ; it has seen what man never 
before saw; it has seen enough. Hang up that poor little spy-glass; it has done its 
work. Not Herschel nor Rosse has, comparatively, done more. Franciscans and Domini- 
cans deride thy discoveries now, but the time will come when, from two hundred observa- 
tories in Europe and America, the glorious artillery of science shall nightly assault the 
35 



560 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



skies ; but they shall gain no conquests in those glittering fields before which thme shall be 
forofotten. 

o 

Rest in peace, great Columbus of the heavens ; — like him scorned, persecuted, broken- 
hearted I — in other ages, in distant hemispheres, when the votaries of science, with solemn 
acts of consecration, shall dedicate their stately edifices to the cause of knowledge and 
truth, thy name shall be mentioned with honor. 

Edw^aed Everett. 



OBSEQUIES OF DAVIT) THE PAIXTER. 

[Kx-MeiTi»ber of the French National Convention.] 

Ipj^HE pass is barred! "Fall back: ■■ e-ries the guard; Did uot his art to them impart life's breath, that 
P^ "cross not the French frontier! " " France might see 

/^ As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the AVhat a patriot few in the gap could do at old Ther- 

mopylffi? 
Oft by that sight for the coming tight was the youth- 



o funeral drew near. 

For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no plume, 
no pall can hide. 

That yon hearse contains the sad remains of a ban- 
ished regicide! 

" But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his chil- 
dren to the guard; 

"Let his noble art plead on his part— let a grave be 
his reward ! 

France knew his name in her hour of fame, nor the aid 
of his pencil scorned ; 

Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs he 
adorned! " 

" That corpse can't pass! "tis my dntj-, alas!" said 

the frontier sentinelle, — 
"But pity take for his country's sake, and his clay do 

not repel 
Frona its kindred earth, from the land of his birth: "" 

cried the mourners in their turn : 
" Oh, give to France the inheritance of her painter's 

funeral urn : 
Hi's pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the pathless 

Mont Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the snow-white hoi-se : — let a 

srrave be his reward! 



ful bosom fired! 
lyct his passport be the memory of the valor he in- 
spired.'' 

"Ye cannot pass." — "Soldier, alas! a dismal boon 

we crave; 
Say, is there not some hmely spot where his friends 

maj^ dig a grave? 
O. pitj' take, for that hero's sake whom he gloried to 

portraj' 
AVith crown and palm at IVoire Dame on his corona- 
tion da}'. 
Amid that baud the withered hand of an aged pontiff 

rose. 
And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, forgiving 

his own woes ; 
He drew that scene — nor dreamed. I ween, that yet a 

little while 
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off in a 

lonely isle! 

•■I am charged, alas! not to let you pass," said the 
sorrowing sentinelle ; 
desti 
well ! 



For he loved this land— aye, his dying hand to paint fjard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a place of 

her fame he'd lend her: 
Let his passport be the memory of his native coiintry 

splendor! " 



" Y"e cannot i)ass," said the guard. •• alas ! " (for tears 

bedimmed his eyes) 
"Though France may count to pass that mount a 

glorious enterprise;" 
"Then pity take for fair Freedom's sake." cried the 

mourners once again: 
•• Her favorite was I^eonidas, with his band of Spartan 

men ; 



rest. 
And to bear away his banished clay from the land 

that he loved best. 
But let us hence! sad recompense foi- the lustre that 

he cast, 
Blending the rays of modern daj's with the glories of 

the past! 
Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless my 

mind doth err) ; 
And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's 

sepulchre! " 

Francis Mahony (Father Prout.) 

{From the French of Beranger.] 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



5G1 




joa:^ of aec. 



HAT is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shep- 
herd-ofirl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that like the Hebrew 
shepherd-boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly out of 
the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in 
deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the 
more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy 
inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such 
as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read 
her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies 
bore witness to the boy as no pretender: but so they did to the gentle 
girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of 
good-will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. 
Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy 
rose, — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang 
through the records of his people, and became a by-word amongst his posterity for a 
thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, 
on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for 
France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domremy, as 
echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances of 
Vancouleurs, which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her 
voice was then silent. No ! for her feet were dust. 

Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in 
as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side,, 
that never once — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of 
coronets and honor from man. Coronets for thee? Oh, no! Honors, if they come 
when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when 
the gratitude of thy king shall awaken thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. 
Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee ! Cite her by thy apparitors to 
come and receive the robe of honor, but she will be found en contumace. When the 
thunders of universal France, as oven yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of 
the poor shepherd-girl that gave uj) all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd-girl, 
will have been deaf for five centuries. 

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; to do, — never for thyself, 
always for others ; to suffer, — never in the persons of generous champions, always in 
thy own; that was thy destiny, and not for a moment was it hidden from th^-self. 
"Life," thou saidst, "is short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let 
nie use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to 
comfort the sleep which is so long." 

Pure from every stjspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure 
in senses more obvious, never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from 
her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure 
the very manner of her death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of 



562 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY, 



the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end, on every road, pouring into Rouen as to 
a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying liames, the hostile faces all around, the 
pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke 
loose from artificial restraints ; these might not be apparent through the mists of the 
hurrying future, but the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat 
upon it; but well Joan knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for 
her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them: not she by them, but they by her, 
should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had 
the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the 
wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joan knew, early at 
Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no 
garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. 

Thomas DeQuincey. 



CHARLES XII OF SWEDEN. 




what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; 
W^ A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 

No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquered lord of pleasm-e and of pain; 

No joys to him paciflc sceptres yield. 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; 

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 

"Think nothing gained," he cries, '-till naught re- 
main. 

On Moscow's walls till G-othic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state. 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 



Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; — 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bauds. 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemned a need}' supplicant to wait. 

While ladies interpose and slaves debate, 

But did not Chance at length her error mend? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound. 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 

His fall was destined to a barren sti-and, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name at which the world grew pale. 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

Samxjel Johnson. 



-TTsSCJ.^ 



BYRON. 



. IpE touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced. 

sAm.- ^g gome vast river of unfailing soni-ce. 

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed. 
And oped new fountains in the human heart. 
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight. 
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose. 
And soared unti-odden heights, and seemed at 
home 

Wliere angels bashful looked. Otliers, though great, 

Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles; 



He from above descending stooped to touch 

The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though 

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 

At will with all her glorious majesty. 

He laid his hand upon •• the ocean's mane." 

And played familiar with his hoary locks; 

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 

And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend; 

And wove his garland of the lightning's ^^^ng. 



PLACES AND PEESONH. 



563 



lu sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which, as the footsteps of the dretidful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed; 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars and clouds, his sisters were ; 
Kocks, mountains, meteors, seas and winds and storms 
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. All passions of all men. 
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe; 
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane; 



All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity ; 
All that was hated, aud all that was dear; 
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man; 
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves. 
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
With terror now he froze the cowering blood. 
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness; 
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himseU ; 
But back into his soul retired, alone. 
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 

Egbert Pollok. 



AT THE TOMB OF BYRON. 



MASTEE ! here I bow before a shrine ; 
Before the lordliest dust that ever yet 
Jk Moved animate in human form divine. 
"I Lo ! dust indeed to dust. The mould is set 
Above thee, and the ancient walls are wet, 
And drip all day in dank and silent gloom. 
As if the cold gray stones could not foi-get 
Thjr great estate shrunk to this sombre room, 
But learn to weep perpetual tears above thy tomb. 

Through broken panes I hear the schoolboy's shout, 

I see the black-winged engines sweep aud pass, 

And from the peopled narrow plot without. 

Well grown with brier, moss, and heaving grass, 

I see the Abbey loom an ivied mass. 

Made eloquent of faiths, of fates to be. 

Of creeds, and perished kings : and still, alas, 

soldier-childe! most eloquent of thee. 
Of thy sad life, and all the unsealed mystery. 

1 look into the dread, forbidding tomb; 

Lo! darkness — death. The soul on shifting sand 

That belts eternity gropes in the gloom 

The black-winged bird goes forth in search of land. 

But turns no more to reach my reaching hand 

O. hind beyond the land! I lean me o'er 

Thy dust in prayer devout 1 rise, I stand 

Erect ; the stormy seas are thine no more ; 
A wearj'- white-winged dove has touched the olive 
shore. 



A bay-wreath woven by the sun-down west 
Hangs damp and stained upon the dank gray wall, 
Above thy time-soiled tomb and tattered crest; 
A bay-wreath gathered by the seas that call 
To orient Cathay, that break and fall 

On shell-lined shores, before Tahiti's breeze 

A slab, a crest, a wreath, and these are all 
Neglected, tattered, torn ; yet only these 
The world bestows for song that rivaled singing seas. 

A bay-wreath wound by one more truly brave 
Than Shastan; fair as thy eternal fame. 
She sat and wove above the sunset wave. 
And wound and sang thy measures and thy name. 
'T was wound by one, yet sent with one acclaim 
By man)', fair and warm as flowing wine. 
And purely true, and tall as glowing flame. 
That list and lean in moonlight's yellow shine 
To tropic tales of love in other tongues than thine. 

I bring this idle reflex of thy task. 
And my few loves, to thy forgotten tomb : 
I leave them here ; and here all pardon ask 
Of thee, and patience ask of singers whom 
Thy majesty has silenced. I resume 
My staff, and now mj'' face is to the West; 
My feet are worn; the sun is gone, a gloom 
Has mantled Ilucknall, and the minstrel's zest 
For fame is broken here, and here he pleads for rest. 

Joaquin Miller. 



^se^^ 



ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. 



^t'a. 



gBIS figure that thou here seest put. 
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, 
"Wlierein the graver had a strife 
With nature, to outdo the life : 
could he but have drawn his wit, 



As well in brass, as he hath hit 
His face ; the print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass : 
But since he cannot, reader, look, 
Not on his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 



564 



TELE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 



^1 WHITHER sail yon. Sir John Franklin? " 
^i Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
^y\ " To know if between the land and the pole 
J>1 I may find a broad sea-way.'' 

"I charge you, back! Sir John Franklin, 

As you would live and thrive; 
For between the laud and the frozen pole 

No man may sail alive." 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 

And spoke unto his men : — 
'• Half England is wrong, if he is right; 

Bear off to the westward then." 

"O whither sail j-ou, brave Englishman?" 

Cried the little Esquimaux. 
" Between the land and the polar star 

My goodly vessels go." 

" Come down, if you would journey there," 

The little Indian said; 
"And change your cloth for fur clothing, 

Your vessel for a sled." 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
And the crew laughed with him too; 

"A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
I ween, were something new." 

All through the long, long polar day, 

The vessels westward sped ; 
And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 

The ice gave way and fled — 

Gave way with many a hollow groan. 

And many a surly roar; 
But it murmured and threatened on eveiy side, 

And closed where he sailed before. 

"Ho! see ye not, mj^ merry men, 

The broad and open sea? 
Bethuik ye what the whaler said, 
Think of the Little Indian's sled! " 

The crew laughed out in glee. 

"Sir John. Sir .John, "t is bitter cold, 

The scud drives on the breeze. 
The ice comes looming from the north. 

The very sunbeams freeze." 

"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes — 

We cannot rule the year; 
But long ere summer's sun goes down, 

On vonder sea we'll steer." 



The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 

And floundered down the gale; 
The ships were stayed, the yards were manned. 

And furled the useless sail. 

" The summer's gone, the winter's come. 

We sail not yonder sea ; 
Whj' sail we not, Sir John Franklin? " 

A silent man was he. 

" The summer goes, the winter comes — 

We cannot rule the j'ear; 
I ween, we cannot rule the ways. 

Sir John, wherein we'd steer." 

The cruel ice came floating on. 

And closed beneath the lee. 
Till the thickening waters dashed no more, — 
'Twas ice around, behind, before — 

My God ! there is no sea ! 

"What think you of the whaler now? 

What of the Esquimaux? 
A sled were better than a ship. 

To cruise through ice and snow." 

Down sank the baleful crimson sun, 

The Northern Light came out. 
And glared upon the ice-bound ships. 

And shook its spears about. 

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 

And on the decks was laid ; 
Till the weary sailor, sick at heart. 

Sank down beside his spade. 

"Sir John, the night is black and long. 

The hissing wind is bleak. 
The hard, green ice is strong as death ; 

I prithee. Captain, speak! " 

" The night is neither bright nor short. 

The singing breeze is cold, 
The ice is not so strong as hope — 

The heart of man is bold.'' 

" A\Tiat hope can scale this icy wall. 

High o'er the main flag-staff? 
Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
Look down with a patient, settled stare. 

Look down on us and laugh." 

The summer went, the winter came — 

We could not rule the year; 
But summer will melt the ice again. 
And open a path to the sunny main. 

Whereon our ships shall steer. 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



565 



The winter went, the summer went. 

The winter came around ; 
But the hard, green ice was strong as death, 
And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 

Yet caught at every sound. 

"Hai"k! heard you not the noise of guns? 

And there, and there again? " 
" 'T is some uneasy iceberg s roar, 

As he turns in the frozen main.'" 

"Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux 

Across the ice-fields steal." 
*• God give them grace for their charity! 

Ye pray for the silly seal." 

" Sir John, where are the English fields? 

And where are the English trees? 
And where are the little English flowers 

That open in the breeze? " 

"Be^till, be still, my brave sailors! 

You shall see the fields again, 
And smell the scent of the opening flowers. 

The grass and the waving grain." 

"Oh! when shall I see my orphan child? 
My Mary waits for me." 



" Oh ! when shall I see my old mother. 
And pray at her trembling knee? " 

" Be still, be still, my brave sailors. 
Think not such thoughts again! " 

But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; 
He thought of Lady Jane. 

Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold. 

The ice grows more and more ; 
More settled stare the wolf and bear, 

More patient than before. 

" Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, 

We'll ever see the land? 
'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, 

Without a helping hand." 

" "Twas cruel to send us here, Sir John, 

So far from help or home, 
To starve and freeze on this lonely sea : 
I ween the Lords of the Admiralty 

Had rather send than come." 

" Oh ! whether we starve to death alone. 

Or sail to our own country. 
We have done what man has nevei' done — 
The open ocean danced in the sun — 

We passed the Northern Sea." 

George H. Boker. 



-^^--9^ 



MAEIE ANTOIIsTETTE, QUEEN OF FEAIfCE. 



ppT is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the 
P^ Dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly 
■%' seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, 
I decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in — glittering 
like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution ! 
and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that 
fall ! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to that enthusiastic, 
distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote 
against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived 
to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of 
honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their 
scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of 
chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and 
the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold 
that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, 
that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of 
an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the chief defence of nations, the 
nurse of manly sentiment and heroic entei'prise is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of 



566 



THE GOLDEN^ TREASURY. 



principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired 
courage while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under 
which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. 

Edmund Bueke. 



DEATH OF MAEIE A2^TOIS"ETTE. 



I^S there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long months and years of 
slow-wasting ignominy; of thy birth, self-cradled in imperial Schonbrunn, the winds 
\:^ of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy 
eye on splendor; and then of thj' death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine 
and Fouquier Tinville's judgnient-bar was but the merciful end ! Look there, O man 
born of woman I The bloom of that fair face is wasted, tlie hair is gray with care; 
the brightness of those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony 
pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended, attire 
the Queen of the "World. The death-hurdle, where thou sittest pale, motionless, which 
only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, Avill drink it again 
in full drauoflit, lookino; at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of 
maniac heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yell ! The living dead must shudder with 
yet one other pang; her startled blood 3'et again suffuses with the hue of agony that 
pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say God pity 
thee! O think not of these; think of him whom thou worshippest, the crucified — who 
also treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it 
and made it holy, and built of it a " sanctuary of sorrow " for thee and all the wretched ! 
Thy path of thorns is nigh ended, one long last look at the Tuilleries, where thy step was 
once so light — where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the ax 
rushes — dumb lies the world ; that wild-yelling world, and all its madness is behind thee. 

Thomas Caklyle. 



-TT^se^^r- 



liRpHE voice of a wondrous seer .' 
#*rs The voice of a soul that is sti'onar ! 
'''fj'^ As true as Love and as swift as Fear, 
X In the mazes of marvelous song;. 



BURNS. 



It murmurs in brae and birk, 

It pleads in the daisy's eye, 
AMiere hands are toughened by honest work, 

And bairns in their cradles lie. 



Far over the mountains bare, 
Red heather and ridges of sea. 

It flows in the pulse of the living air, 
And thi-obs in the veins of the free. 

It whispers in sununer's breath, 
It lisps on the creamy shore, 

It sings in the lips that smile at death, 
In the storm and cataract's roar. 



In cottage, and kirk, and bower, 

In hall, in court, and in mart. 
In the chirp of the mavis, and hawthorn flower. 

And the maiden's simple heart. 

It croons by the blaze of the inn 
AVhere the drouthy neighbors bide. 

It shrieks in the ghastly glare and din 
Where the bitches dance and ride. 



PLACES AND PEESONS. 



uG7 



Its mirth is a tempest of glee, 

Its grief is tiie smart of fire. 
Its solemn strain is tlie trump of tlie sea, 

Its chorus the world's desire. 

I listen, and brooklet and wold, 
Wild bird, and the darkling wood 

Are breathing secrets before untold. 
Of the perfect and passionless Good. 

I list to the voice as it flies 

And sings to the lands and the years, 
And the light is clear in Freedom's eyes, 

And Poverty wipes his tears. 

I see that the poet's heart 

Is brother to all who feel, 
That the tender touch of its artless art 

Is stronger than rivets of steel. 



I see how that man is great. 

Because he is simply man; 
That the minions of grandeur and state 

On manhood can fasten no ban. 

I see how to peoples and times 

The life of the Singer leaps on, 
And gladdens the welcoming chimes, 

Like spring-bursts of blossom and sun. 

I ache with the stress of the strain — 
Its music, and wildness, and heat, 

Yet pressed on the heart of my pain. 
Are the lips of its prophecy sweet. 

And singing myself I go — 

Unconscious of frown or of rod — 

To the work whose choruses flow 
With tbe joy and the praises of God. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



BURNS. 



^^TOP, mortal ! Here thy brother lies, — 
1?^ The poet of the poor. 

Sh His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 
* The meadow and the moor; 

His teachers were the torn heart's wail. 

The tyrant, and the slave, 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace, — and the grave! 
Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 

And is thy brother blamed? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care 
He no exemption claimed. 



The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm. 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a i)easant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He blessed the steward whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 

From plundered labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan. 

A heart to feel and dare, — ■ 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they ai'o. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



-S-^S"*'-®,'^ 



DEATH OF GOETHE. 



IJliliHE morning of the 22d March, 1832, he tried to walk a little up and down the 
S^^^ room, but after a turn, he found himself too feeble to continue. Reseating: 
/l^)^ himself in the easy-chair, he chatted cheerfully with Ottilie (his daughter-in-law) 
■n, on the approaching spring, which would be sure to restore him. He had no 
idea of his end being so near. The name of Ottilie was frequently on his lips. She sat 
beside him, holding his hand in both of hers. It was now observed that his thouo-hts 
began to wander incoherently. "See," he exclaimed, "the lovely woman's head, with 
black curls, in splendid colors — a dark background !" Presently he saw a piece of paper 
on the floor, and asked them how they could leave Schiller's letters so carelessly lying 
about. Then he slept softly, and, on awakening, asked for the sketches he had just 
seen — the sketches of his dream. In silent anguish they awaited the close now so surely 
approaching. His speech was becoming less and less distinct. The last words audible 
were, "More light!" The final darkness grew apace, and he whose otornal longings had 
been for more light, gave a parting cry for it as he was passing under the shadow of 



5G8 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



death. He continued to express himself bv signs, drawing letters with his forefinger in 
the air while he had strength; and finally, as life ebbed, drawing figures on the shawl 
which covered his legs. At half-past tw^elve he composed himself in the corner of the 
chair. The watcher placed her finger on her lip to intimate that he was asleep. If 
sleep it was, it was a sleep in which a life glided from the Avorld. He woke no more. 

George Hexry Lewes. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 



of|7o 



f^Y boat is on the shore, 
..^.~,.. And nij' bark is on the sea; 
^^^ But before I go, Toni Moore. 
^t' Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for any fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 



Though a desert should smn-ound me. 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were "t the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink. 
Ere mj- fainting spirit fell, 

"T is to thee that I would drink. 

AVith that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace to thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

Lord Bykon. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 



_!^fk 



iWi^ICTOR in poesy! Victor in romance! 
W^M Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears! 
'WPf French of the French, and lord of human tears! 
<km Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, 
* Darkening the wreaths of all that would ad- 
vance 
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers! 
Weird Titan, by thj' wintrj- weight of years 



As yet unbroken! Stormy voice of France, 
AVho does not love our England, so thej- say; 
I know not ! England, France, all men to be. 
Will make one people, ere man's race be run ; 
And I, desiring that diviner day. 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy 
To younger England, in the boy, mj' son. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



s— i^^ 



MAZZINI. 



'■"^r 



^^^^ 

;^|^ LIGHT is out in Italy, 

A golden tongue of purest tiame; 

We watched it burning, long and lone. 

And every watcher knew its name, 

And knew from whence its fei-vor came: 

That one rare Jight of Italy, 
Which put self-seeking souls to shame! 

'i'his light which burnt for Italy, 
Through all the blackness of her night. 

She doubted once upon a time. 
Because it took away her sight; 

She looked and said, "There is no light! " 
It was thine eyes, ])0(n- Italy? 

That knew not dark apart from bright. 



This flame which burnt for Italy, 
It would not let her haters sleep ; 

They blew at it with angry breath. 
And only fed its upward leap. 

And only made it hot and deep ; 
Its burning showed us Italy, 

And all the hopes she had to keep. 

Tills light is out in Ital.v. 

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! 
For her sweet sake it spent itself. 

Too early flickering to its wane — 
Too long blown over by her i)ain. 

Bow down and weep, O Italy, 
Thou canst not kindle it again! 

Laura C. Redden (Howard Glyudon). 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



5(59 



LORD RAGLAN. 



^t^ 



vH! uot because our Soldier died before his field 
was won ; 
A Ah! not because life would not last till lifers 
long task were done, 
Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief, — of all 

our hosts that led 
Not last in work and worth approved. Lord Raglan 
lieth dead. 



His nobleness he had of none. War's Master taught 

him war, 
And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips 

can mar; 
Gone to his grave, his duty done : if farther any seek. 
He left his life to answer them, — a soldier's, — let it 

speak ! 

'T was his to sway a blunted sword,— to fight a fated 

field, 
While idle tongues talked victory, to struggle, not to 

yield; 
Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan a field for 

fight. 
Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that 

field aright. 



Tears have been shed for the brave dead ; mourn him 

w ho mourned for all ! 
Praise hath been given for strife well striven, praise 

him who strove o'er all. 
Nor count that conquest little, though no banner 

fiaunt it far. 
That under him our English hearts beat Pain and 

Plague and War. 

And if he held those English hearts too good to pave 

the path 
To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he 

hath? 
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and 'mid his 

soldiers seen. 
His work was aye as stern as theirs; oh I make his 

grave as green. 

They know him well, the Dead who died that Russian 

wrong should cease. 
Where fortune doth not measure men, their souls and 

his have peace ; 
Aye ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody 

strife. 
For English homes our English Chief gave \\hat he 

had — his life. 

Edwin Arnold. 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 



g^m^^jBOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
^1^1^ The river sang; below ; 

/|!)\ 'pijg dj,,, Sierras, far bej'ond uplifting 
ifl 1'heir minarets of snow. 



The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The I'liddy tints of health 
On haggai-d face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 



The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. 

Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with 'Nell' ouEnglish meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 



Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure Lost in that camp, and wasted all its fire : 
A hoarded volume drew. And he who wrought that spell? — 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure. Ah. towering pine and statelj' Kentish spire. 
To hear the tale ane\\' ; Ye have one tale to tell ! 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. Lost in that camp! but let its fragrant story 
And as the firelight fell. Blend with the l)reath that thrills 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master With hop-vines' incense all the jjcnsive glory 
Had writ of "Little Nell." That fills the Kentish hills. 



Perhaps "t was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all. — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence, seemed to fall : 



And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths intwine. 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly — 

This spray of Western pine. 

Bret Harte. 



570 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



WASHI]^GTO]Sr. 



m 



Ks'.y <vyjja.y^yf>». 




^IS mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order; 
his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of a Xewton, Bacon 
or Locke; and, as far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It 
was slow in operation, being little aided hj invention or imagination, but 
sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his oflicers, of the 
advantage he derived from councils of war, where, hearing all sugr- 
gestions, he selected whatever was best; and certainly no general ever 
planned his battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the 
course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by 
sudden circumstances, he was slow in readjustment. The consequence 
was that he often failed in the field, and rarel}' against an enemy in 
station, as at Boston and York. He was incapable of fear, meeting 
personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest 
feature in his character was prudence: never acting until every cir- 
cumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed; refraining if he saw a doubt, but, 
when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His 
integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no motives 
of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. 
He was, indeed, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great man. His 
temper was naturally irritable and high-toned ; but reflection and resolution had obtained a 
firm and habitual ascendency over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most 
tremendous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but exact; liberal in 
contributions to whatever promised utility, but frowning and unyielding on all visionary 
projects and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its affections, 
but he exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a solid esteem proportioned 
to it. His person, you know, was fine; his stature exactly what one would wish ; his 
deportment easy, erect, and noble; the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful 
figure that could be seen on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where 
he might be unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial 
talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas nor fluency 
of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, 
and embarrassed ; yet he wrote readily, rather diffusely, in an easy and correct style. 
This he had acquired by conversation with the world ; for his education was merely 
reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. 
His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that onl}" in agriculture 
and English history. His correspondence became necessainly extensive, and, with jour- 
nalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most of his leisure hours within doors. 
On the whole, his character was, in its mass, perfect — in nothing bad, in a few 
points indifferent ; and it may be truly said, that never did Nature and Fortune com- 
bine more completely to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation 
with whatever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance ; for his 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 571 

was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country successfully 
through an arduous war for the establishment of its independence, of conducting its 
councils through the birth of a government new in its forms and principles, until it 
had settled down into a quiet and orderly train, and of scrupulously obeying the laws 
through the whole of his career, civil and military : of which the history of the world 
furnishes no other example. 

Thomas Jefferson. 



Li:t^COLI^ THE SHEPHEED OE THE PEOPLE. 

|0 let him lie here in our midst to-day, and let our people go and bend with 
solemn though tfulness and look upon his face and read the lessons of his burial. 
As he paused here on his journey from his Western home and told us what by the 
help of God he meant to do, so let him pause upon his way back to his Western 
grave, and tell us, with a silence more eloquent than words, how bravely, how truly, bj'" 
the strength of God he did it. God brought him up as he brought David up from the 
sheepfolds to feed Jacob his people, and Israel his inheritance. He came up in earnest- 
ness and faith, and he goes back in triumph. As he pauses here to-day, and from his cold 
lips bids us bear witness how he has met the duty that was laid on him, what can we say out; 
of our full hearts but this — " He fed them with a faithful and true heart, and ruled them 
prudently with all his power." The Shepherd of the People ! that old name that the best 
rulers ever craved. What ruler ever won it like this dead President of ours? He fed 
us faithfully and truly. He fed us with counsel when we were in doubt, with 
inspiration when we sometimes faltered, with caution when we would be rash, with calm, 
clear, trustful cheerfulness through many an hour when our hearts were dark. He fed 
hungry souls all over the country with sympathy and consolation. He spread before 
the whole land feasts of great duty and devotion and patriotism on which the land 
gi'ew strong. He fed us with solemn, soHd truths. He taught us the sacredness of 
government, the wickedness of treason. He made our souls glad and vigorous with 
the love of Liberty that was in his. He showed us how to love truth and yet be 
charitable: — how to hate wrong and all oppression, and yet not tx'easure one personal 
injury or insult. He fed all his people, from the highest to the lowest, from the most 
privileged down to the most enslaved. Best of all, he fed us with a reverent and 
genuine religion. He spread before us the love and fear of God just in that shape in 
which we need them most, and out of his faithful service of a higher Master, who of 
us has not taken and eaten and grown strong? " He fed them with a faithful and 
true heart." Yes, till the last. For at the last, behold him standing with hand 
reached out to feed the South with Mercy and the North with Charity, and the whole 
land with Peace, when the Lord, who had sent him, called him, and his work was done. 

Phillips Brooks. 

HE wise man is but a clever infant spelling lettei's from a hierographical prophetic 
book, the lexicon of which lies in eternity. 



572 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



ABRAHAM LT^XOLN. 

[This tribute appeared in the London '•Punch," which, up to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and 
maligned him with all its ■well- kno^vn po'wers cf pen and pencil. J 



^OU lay a wreath ou murdered Lincoln's bier, 

Yuii, who with mocking pencil wont to trace. 
Broad for the self-complacent British sneei-. 
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed 
face. 

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair. 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 

His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
Of power or will to shine, of art to please; 

Tun, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh. 

Judging each step as though the waj' were plain. 
Eeckless, so it could point its paragraph 

Of chiefs perplexitj', or people's pain : 

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew. 

Between the mourners at his head and feet. 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room foi- you ? 

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer. 
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; 

To make me own this hind of princes paer. 
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. 

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, 
Xoting iiow to occasion's height he rose: 

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true; 
How. iron-like, his temper grew by blows. 

How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; 

How, in good fortune and in ill. the same; 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 

He went about his work, — such work as few 
Ever liad laid on head and heart and hand, 

As one who knows, where there 's a task to do. 
Man's honest will must heaven's good grace com- 
mand ; 

\Mio trusts the strength will with the burden grow. 

That God makes instruments to work his will. 
If but that will we can arrive to know. 

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. 



So he went forth to battle, on the side 
That he felt clear was Libertj's and Eight's, 

As in his peasant bojhood he had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights; 

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. 

The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's ax, 
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil. 

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, 

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear. — 
Such were the deeds that helped his j'outh to train : 

Eough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear. 
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. 

So he grew up. a destined work to do. 

And lived to do it; fom* long-suffering j'ears' 
HI fate, ill feeling, ill report, lived through. 

And then he lieard the hisses change to cheers. 

The taunts to triljute. the abuse to praise, 

.\nd took both with the same unwavering mood; 

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days. 
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood. 

A felon hand, between the goal and him. 

Eeached from behind his back, a trigger prest. 
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim. 

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! 

The words of mercy were upon his lips. 
Forgiveness in his heart and on liis i)en. 

When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse 
To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men. 

The Old World and the Xew, from sea to sea. 
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame : 

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; 
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came! 

A deed accmstl Strokes have been struck before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt 

If more of horror or disgrace the.v bore; 
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, 

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, 
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; 

And with the martyr's crown crownest a life 
With nmch to praise, little to be forgiven. 

Tom Taylor. 



^^^ GOOD name is properly that reputation of virtue that every man may challenge 
i^e^ as his right and due in the opinions of others, till he has made forfeit of it by 
the viciousness of his actions. 



PLACES AXD PEESONS. 



573 




GAEFIELD'S LAST DAYS. 

N the morning of Saturday, July 2, 1881, President Garfield was a 
contented and happy man — not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, 
almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad station to which 
he drove slowly, in . conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, 
with an unwonted sense of leisure and a keen anticipation of pleasure, 
his talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that 
after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp 
of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; 
that grave difiiculties confronting him . at his inauguration had been 
safely passed ; that trouble lay behind him and not before him ; that 
he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recoverins' from 
an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved 
him ; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cherished associations of his 
young manhood, and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had 
followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college 
course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. 

Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on 
that quiet July morning, James A. Garfield may well have been ji happy man. No fore- 
bodino- of evil haunted him ; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His 
terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident 
in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay v/ounded, bleeding, 
helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave. 

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of 
wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of 
this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence 
of death — and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned 
and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through daj^s of 
deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because it was silently 
borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and 
ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell ! — what brilliant broken plans, what baf- 
fled high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm manhood's friendships, what bitter 
rending of sweet household ties ! Behind him a proud expectant nation, a great host of 
sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full rich honors of her early 
toil and tears ; the wife of his youth whose whole life lay in his ; the little boys not yet 
emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just 
springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's 
love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before 
him, desolation and great darkness I And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were 
thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, 
he became the centre of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a Avorld. But all the 
love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press 
alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of 



574 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With 
simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree. 

As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion 
of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain ; and he begged to be taken 
from its prison walls, from its; oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hope- 
lessness. Gentl}^ silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the 
longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heav- 
ing billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to 
the cooling breeze, he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders, — on its 
far sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to 
break and die beneath the noonda}' sun : on the red clouds of evening, arching low to 
the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway- of the stars. Let us think that his 
dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. 
Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heai'd the great waves 
breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted bx'ow the breath of the 



eternal morning. 



jAiiES G. Blaine. 



GARFIELD. 



^•^pOW all ye flo\A-er5 make room ; 
~(f^Jm Hither we eoiiie in jjloom 
Y To make a mighty tomb, 
f Sighing and weeping. 

I Grand was the life he led; 
Wise was each word he said; 
But with the noble dead 
"We leave him sleeping. 



Soft may his body rest 
As on his mother's breast. 
AVhose love stands all (.-oufessed 

"Mid blinding tears: 
But may his soul so A\hite 
Rise in triumphant flight. 
And in God"s land of light 

Spend endless years. 

Daviu Swing. 



ICHABOD. 



^ 



|0 fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn 
Which once he wore! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 
Forevermore ! 

Revile him not. — the Tempter hath 

A snare for all ! 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

O. dumb be passion's stormy rage 

AVhen he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age 

Falls back in night! 

Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark 

A bright soul driven. 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

From hope and heaven? 

Let not the land, once proud of him, 
Insult him now: 



Xor brand with deeper shame his dim 
Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons instead. 

From sea to lake. 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains. — 
A fallen angel's pride of thought. 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone: from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
AMien faith is lost, when honor dies. 

The man is dead ! 

Then jjay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame : 
Walk backward, with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



PLACES AyiU PERSONS. 



OiO 



THE LOST OCCASION. 



I In memory of Daniel Webster.] 



iOME die too late, and some too soon. 
At early morning, heat of noon, 
Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, 
Whom- the rioh heavens did so endow 
With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, 
With all the massive strength that tills 
'fhy home-horizon's granite hills. 
With rarest gifts of heart and head 
From manliest stock inherited 
New England's stateliest type of man. 
In port and speech Olympian ; 
Whom no one met, at first, but took 
A second awed and wondering look 
(As turned, perchance, the ej'es of Greece, 
On Phidias' unveiled master2:)iece) ; 
Whose words in simplest home-spun clad, 
The Saxon strength of Cfedmon's had. 
With power reserved at need to reach 
The Roman forum's loftiest speech. 
Sweet with persuasion, eloquent 
In passion, cool in argument. 
Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes 
As fell the Norse god's hammer blows, 
Crushing as if with Talus' flail 
Through error's logic-woven mail, 
And failing only when they tried 
The adamant of the righteous side, — 
Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved 
Of old friends, by the new deceived. 
Too soon for ns, too soon for thee. 
Beside thy lonely Northern sea, 
Where long and low the marsh-lands spread. 
Laid wearily down thy august head. 

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below 

Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow, — 

The late-sprung mine that underlaid 

Thy sad concessions vainly made. 

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall 

The star-flag of the Union fall. 

And armed Rebellion pressing on 

The broken lines of Washington! 

No stronger voice than thine had then 

Called out the utmost might of men, 



To make the Union's charter free 

And strengthen law bj^ liberty. 

How had that stern arbitrament 

To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, 

Shaming ambition's paltry pi-ize 

Before thy disillusioned eyes; 

Breaking the spell about thee wound 

Like the green withes that Samson bound; 

Redeeming, in one eft'oi-t grand. 

Thyself and thy imperilled land ! 

Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, 

O sleeper by the Noithern sea, 

The gates of opportunity! 

God fills the gaps of human need. 

Each crisis l)rings its word and deed. 

Wise men and strong we did not lack ; 
But still, with memorj- turning back. 
In the dark hom-s we thought of thee. 
And thy lone grave beside the sea. 

Above that grave the east winds blow. 

And from the marsh-lands drifting slow 

The sea-fog comes, with evermore 

The wave-wash of a lonely shore. 

And sea-birds melancholy cry. 

As Nature fain ^^•ould typify 

The sadness of a closing scene. 

The loss of that which should have been. 

But, where thy native mountains bare 

Their foreheads to diviner air, 

Fit emblem of diviner fame. 

One lofty summit keeps thy name. 

For thee the cosmic forces did 

The rearing of that pyramid ; 

The prescient ages shaping with 

Fire, flood, and frost, thy monolith. 

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon 

With hands of light their benison; 

The stars of midnight pause to set 

Their jewels in its coronet. 

And evermore that mountain mass 

Seems climbing from the shadowy pass 

To light, as if to manifest 

Thy nobler self, thy life at best ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



JOHN BROAVN OF OSAWATOMIE. 



pHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast 
Yankee farmer. 
Brave and godly, with four sons — all stalwart 

men of might. 
There he spoke aloud foi- Freedom, and the 
Border-strife grew warmer, 
3G 



Till the Rangers fli-ed his dwelling, in his ab- 
sence in the night; 
And Old Brown. 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Came homeward in the morning — to find his house 
burned down. 



57G 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



Theu he gnisped his trastj' rifle, aud boldly fought for 
Freedom, 
Smote from border uuto border the fierce iuvadiug 
band ; 
Aud he aud his brave boj-s vowed— so might Heaven 
help aud speed "em I — 
They ^\•ould save those grand old prairies from the 
curse that blights the laud ; 
Aud Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Said, "Boys, the Lord -will aid us I" aud he shoved his 
ramrod down. 

And the Lord did aid these nieu; aud they labored day 
aud even. 
Saving Kansas from its peril, aud their very lives 
seemed charmed : 
Till the ruffians killed one sou. in the blessed light of 
Heaven — 
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed 
all unarmed ; 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, aud frowned a ter- 
rible frown! 

Theu they seized another brave boy, uot amid the heat 
of battle. 
But in peace behind his ploughshare,— and they 
loaded him with chains. 
And with pikes before their horses, even as they goad 
their cattle. 
Drove him cruelly for their sport, aud at last blew 
out his brains; 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Eaised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's 
vengeance down. 

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Al- 
mighty. 
He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed 
and torn him so; — 
He would seize it by the vitals: he would crush it day 
aud night, he 
Would so pursue its footsteps, — so return it lilow for 
blow — 

That Old Brown. 
Osawatomie BrowTi. 
Should be a name to ■ -w by, in backwoods or in 
town ! 

Then his beard became more grizzled, aud his wild 

blue eye grew wilder. 
And more sharplj' curved his ha\vk"s-uose. snuffing 

battle from afar; 
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife 

waxed milder. 



G-re\v more sullen, till was over the bloody Border 
War. 

Aud Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned bj' his fearful glare 
and frown. 

So he left the plains of Kansas aud their bitter woes 
behind him. 
Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are 
born. 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferrj', aud uo one knew 
where to find him. 
Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed aud 
slioru ; 

For Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown. 
Mad as he was knew texts enough to wear a parson's 
gown. 

He bought uo ploughs aud harrows, spades aud 
shovels, or such trifles ; 
But quietly to his raucho there came, by every 
train. 
Boxes full of pikes aud pistols, aud his well-beloved 
Sharp's rifles; 
And eighteen other madmen joined theu' leader 
there agaiu. 

Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
" Boj's, we've got an army large enough to march aud 
whip the town ! 

•'Take the town, and seize the uuiskets, free the ne- 
groes, aud theu arm them; 
Carry the Couuty aud the State, ay. aud all the 
potent South ; 
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims 
rise to harm them — 
These Virginians! who believed uot. nor would 
heed the warning mouth." 
Says Old Brown. 
Osawatomie Brown. 
" The world shall see a Eepublic. or my name is uot 
John Brown!" 

'T was the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a 
Sunda.v. 
'"This good work." declared the captain, "shall be 
on a holy night! " 
It was on a Sunday evening, and. before the noon of 
Monday. 
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen pri- 
vates — black and white. 
Captain Brown. 
Osawatomie Brown. 
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked 
the sentiy down ; 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



57' 



Took the guarded ai-inory-buildiag, and the muskeUs 
and the uauuon ; 
Captured all the couuty majors and the colonels, one 
by one; 
Scared to death eaeh gallant scion of Virginia they 
ran on, 
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed 
was done. 

Mad Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took 
the town. 



But to storm with all the forces we have mentioned, 
was too risky ; 
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Oovei-nment 
Marines — 
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their 
souls with Bourbon whisky. 
Till they battered down Br(jwu"s castle with their 
ladders and machines; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave 
old crown. 



Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder, 
made he; 
It was all done in the midnight, like the emperor's 
coup d'eiat; 
'•Cut the wires! stop the rail-cars! hold the streets 
and bridges! " said he. 
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for 
guiding star, — 

This Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown; 
And the bold two thousand citizens I'an off and left 
the town. 



Tally-ho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the bay- 
ing! 
In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily 
away ; 
And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too 
late for slaying, 
Not to lose a share of glory, fixed their bullets in 
his clay : 

And Old Brown, 
Osaw atoniie Brown. 
Saw his sous fall dead beside him, and between them 
laid him down. 



Then was riding and railroading and expressing here 
and thither; 
And theMartinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charles- 
town Volunteers, 
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia has- 
tened whither 
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand 
grenadiers ! 

General Brown. 
Osawatomie Brown! 
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was 
pouring down. 

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old 
Brown's durance. 
And the effei'ves'cent valor of the Chivalry broke out. 
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the 
marvelous assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the jilace and drive 
them straight about; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown. 
Found an army come to take him, encamped around 
the town. 



How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they 
hastened on the trial; 
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the 
Charlestown court-house fioor; 
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all 
denial ; 
Wliat the brave old madman told them — these are 
known the country o'er. 
" Hang Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown," 
Said the judge, " and all such rebels! " with his most 
judicial frown. 

But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell, you that the 
flagon. 
Filled \\ith blood of Old Brown's offspring, was 
first poured by Southern hands ; 
And each drop from Old Bi-own"s life-veins, like the 
red gore of the dragon. 
May spring up avengeful Fury. hissing through your 

slave-worn lands! 
And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, 
May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed 
his coffin down ! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



-^■9'* 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 



gHERE in seclusion and remote from men 
The wizard hand lies cold. 
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 
And left the tale half told. 



Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinislied nuist remain! 

Henky Wadswouth Longfellow. 



578 



TPIE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



BATAED TAYLOR. 



^ND where now, Ba5^arcl, will thy footsteps 
tend?" 
My sister asked our guest one winter's daj'. 
Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet 
way, 
Common to both: "Wherever thou shalt send! 
What wouldst thou have me see lor thee? " 
She laughed, 
Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-tire's glow : 
"Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low 
Unsetting sun on Finmark's tishiug-craft.'' 
'■AH these and more I soon shall see for thee! " 
He answered cheerily : and he kept his pledge. 
On Lapland's snow, the Xorth Cape's wind}- wedge. 
And Tromso freezing in its winter sea. 
He went and came. But no man knows the track 
Of his last jouiMiey, and he comes not hack! 

He brought us wonders of the new and old ; 

We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent 

To him its story-telling secret lent. 
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. 
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure, 

In manly, honest thoroughness he ^\TOught; 



From humble home-lays to the heights of thought 
Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. 
How, with the generous pride that friendship hath, 
We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown 
Of civic honor on his brows pressed down. 
Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death. 
And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears 
Two nations speak, we answer but with tears ! 

O Vale of Chester ! trod by him so oft, 
Green as thy June turf keeps his memory. Let 
Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget, 

ISTor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft; 

Let the home voices greet him in the far 
Strange land that holds him ; let the messages 
Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas 

And unmapped vastness of his luiknown star! 

Love's language, heard beyond the loud discoiu'se 
Of perishable fame, in every sphere 
Itself interprets; and its utterance here 

Somewhere in God's unfolding universe 

Shall reach our traveler, softening the suri^rise 
Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



|lp|]EAD he lay among his books ! 
g^^ The peace of God was in his looks. 



In what vast, aerial space,^ 
Shines the light upon thy face? 



4?f As the statues in the gloom 
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, 



In what gardens of delight 
Rest thy weary feet to-night? 



So those volumes from their shelves 
Watched him, silent as themselves. 



Poet! thou, whose latest verse 
Was a garland on thy hearse ; 



Ah ! his hand will nevermore 
Turn their storied pages o'er; 



Thou hast sung, with organ tone, 
In Deukalion's life, thine own; 



Nevermore his lips repeat 
Songs of theirs, however sweet. 



On the ruins of the Past 
Blooms the i)erfect flower at last. 



Let the lifeless body rest ! 

He is gone, who was its guest; 



Friend ! but yesterday the bells 
Rang for thee their loud farewells; 



Gone, as travelers haste to leave 
An inn, nor tany until eve. 



And to-day they toll for thee. 
Lying dead beyond the sea ; 



Traveler! in what realms afar, 
In what planet, in what star. 



Lying dead among thy books. 
The peace of God in all thy looks! 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



PLACES AND PERSOiSfS. 



579 



HENRT WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

(DIED MARCH 24, 1882.) 

O ye dead Poets, who are living' still 

Immortal in your verse. — -Longfellow. 




E mourn for those whose laurels fade, 
Whose greatness in the grave is laid; 
Whose memory few will care to keep, 
Whose names, forgotteu, soon shall sleep ; 
We mourn Life's vainness, as we bow 
O'er folded hands and icy brow. 

Wan is the grief of those whose faith 
Is bounded by the shores of Death ; 
From out whose mists of doubt and gloom 
No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
Where Love's last ti-ibute of a tear 
Lies with dead Howers upon the bier. 

O thou revered, beloved !— not yet, 
With sob of bells, with eyes tear-wet, 
With faltering pulses, do we lay 
Thy greatness in the grave away; 
Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
Can hold the life that wraps thee round. 

Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
Its ministry of hope and love ; 
Thy tender tones be heard within 
The story of Evangeline ; 



And by the Fireside, midst the rest. 
Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 

Again the Mystery will be clear ; 
The august Tuscan's shades appear; 
Moved by thy impulse, we shall feel 
New longings for thy high ideal; 
And under all thy forms of art 
Feel beatings of a human heart. 

As in our dreams we follow thee 
With longing eyes Beyond the Sea, 
We see thee on some loftier height 
Across whose trembling bridge of light 
Our Voices of the Night are borne. 
Clasp with white hand the stars of Morn. 

O happy Poet! Thine is not 

A portion in the common lot; 

Thy works shall follow thee ; thy verse 

Shall still thy living thoughts rehearse; 

The Ages shall to thee belong — 

An immortality of Song. 

Francis F. Brow^ne. 



-3-i)e^i^ 



HORACE GREELEY. 



^I^ARTH, let thy softest mantle rest 

On this worn child to thee returning, 
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast. 

Who loved thee with such tender yearning. 
He knew thy fields and woodland ways. 

And deemed thy humblest son his brother; ■ 
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise. 

We yield him back, O gentle Mother! 

Of praise, of bhime, he drank his fill ; 

Who has not read the life-long story? 
And dear we hold his fame, but still 

The man was dearer than his glory. 
And now to us are left alone 

The closet where his shadow lingers. 
The vacant chair — that was a throne, — 

The pen just fallen from his fingers. 

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen. 
Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey; 

One flash from out the cloud, and then 
The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 



Of hate he surely lacked the art, 

Who made his enemy his lover : 
reverend head, and Christian heart! 

Where now their like the round world over? 

He saw the goodness, not the taint. 

In many a poor, do-nothing creature. 
And gave to sinner and to saint, 

But kept his faith in human nature; 
Perchance he was not worldly-wise. 

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, 

For every weakness held him dearer. 

Alas, that unto him who gave 

So much so little should be given ! 
Himself alone he might not save. 

Of all for whom his hands had striven. 
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed; 

Men took, and passed, and left him lonely; 
What marvel if, beneath his load. 

At times he craved — for justice only. 



/' 



580 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY, 



Yet thauklessness, the serpeufs tooth, 

His loft}' purpose could not alter; 
Toil had iio power to bend his youth. 

Or make his lustj' uumhood falter; 
From euvy"s sling, from slander's dart, 

That armored soul the bodj' shielded. 
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart. 

And then he bowed his head and yielded. 

Now, now, we measiu-e at its worth 

The gracious presence gone forever! 
The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 

Laments with every laboring river ; 
XMld moan the free winds of the West . 

For him who gathered to her prairies 
The sons of men. and made each crest 

The haunt of happy household fairies; 

And anguish sits upon the mouth 
Of her who came to know him latest : 

His heart was ever thine, O South! 
He was thy truest friend, and greatest! 



He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 
He stayed thee in thj' voiceless sorrow ; 

The day thou shalt forget his name. 
Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 

The tears that fall from ejes unused, 

The hands above his grave imited. 
The words of men whose lips he loosed, 

^\Tiose cross he bore, whose ^^•rongs he righted. — 
Could he but know, and rest with this I 

Yet staj'. through Death's low-lying hollow. 
His one last foe's insatiate hiss 

On that benignant shade \\'ould f ollo\^• ! 

Peace ! while we shroud this man of men. 

Let no unhallowed word be sjjoken! 
He will not answer tliee again. 

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
Some holier cause, some vaster trust 

Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
O gently. Earth, receive his dust. 

And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit! 

Edmund Clakknce Stedman. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 



.iKREEX Ije the turf above thee, 
i^pC* Friend of my better days! 
^ff^ None knew thee but to love thee, 
il Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, Avhen thou wert dying, 
Frcjm eyes unused to weep. 

And long, where thou art Ij'ing, 
AVill tears the cold turf steep. 

AMien hearts whose truth was i)i-oveu, 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the \\orld their worth ; 



And I. who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 

"\Miose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Ai'ouud thy faded brow ; 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free ; 

The grief is tixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Gkeenk Halleck. 



DIRGE FOR A 80LDIER. 



ArAJOR-GEXERAL PHILIP KEARNEY. 



|L0SE his eyes; his work is done! 
What to him is friend or foeman. 
Rise of moon or set of sun. 
Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
Wliat cares he? he cannot know : 
Lay him 1oa\ I 

As man may. he fought his fight, 
Proved his truth by his endeavor; 

Let him sleep in solenni night. 
Sleep forever and forever. 



Lay him low. lay him low. 
In the cl(>ver or the snow ! 
AVhat cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
"\Miat to him are all our wars? — 
What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
ATnat cares he? he cannot know; 
Lav him low! 



PLACES AND PERSONS. 



581 



Leave him to God's watching eye : 
Trust him to the hand that made him. 

Mortal love weeps idly by ; 
God alone has power to aid him. 



Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 



-^■a-SM- 



VALE.* 



1^ mortuis nil 7iisi bonum." When 
For me the end has come, and I am dead, 
And little voluble chattering daws of men 

Peck at me curiouslj', let it then be said 
By some one brave enough to speak the truth: 

Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. 
Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth, 

To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword and song. 
And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, 

He wrought for Liberty, till his own wound 
(He had been stabbed) , concealed with painful art 

Through wasting years, mastered him, and he 
swooned. 
And sank there where you see him lying now. 
With that word "Failure" written on his brow. 

But say that he succeeded. If he missed 
World's honors, and world's plaudits and the 
wage 

Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed 
Daily by those high angels who assuage 

The thirstings of the poets — for he was 
Born unto singing, and a burthen lay 



Mightily on him, and he moaned because 

He could not rightly utter in the day 
What God taught in the night. Sometimes, nathless. 

Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame. 
And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress. 

And benedictions from black pits of shame. 
And little children's love, and old men's prayers, 
And a Great Hand that led him unawares. 

So he died rich. And if his eyes were bluri-ed 

With thick films — silence ! he is in his grave. 
Greatly he suffered; g)eat]y, too, he erred; 

Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. 
Nor did he wait till Freedom had become 

The popular shibboleth of the courtier's lips. 
But smote for her when God Himself seemed dumb 

And all his arching skies were in eclipse. 
He was a-weary, but he fought his fight. 

And stood for simple manhood; and was joyed 
To see the august broadening of the light, 

And new earths heaving heavenward from the void 
He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet — 
Plant daisies at his head and at his feet. 

Richard Realf. 



A FRIEND'S GREETING. 



TO J. G. WHITTIER ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. 



g|§||NOW-BOUND for earth, but summer-souled for 
thee, 
X Thy natal morning shines : 

I Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand to me, 
I And let me read its lines! 

For skilled in fancy's palmistry am I, 

When years have set their crown; 

When life gives light to read its secrets by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year 

On service grand and free. 
The pictures of thy spirit's past are clear. 

And each inte^jrets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 

In time's lost morning knew, 
Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires 

That from earth's darkness grew. 



Then wise with secrets of Chaldsean lore, 

In high Akkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river shore. 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 
That Judah's kings betrayed. 

Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees, 
Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah ! most piteous vision of the past. 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martjT, in the arena cast. 

Beneath the lion's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 
The paynim helm and shield ! 

How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 
ThjJ^ white plume o'er the field. 



*Written immediatelv before his suicide. 



582 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Strauge contradiction I where tlie sand waves spread 

The boundless desert sea. 
The Bedouin spearnieu found their destined head. 

Their dark-eyed chief — in thee I 

And thou wert friar in Oluny's saintlj' cell. 

And Skald by Xorway"s foani. 
Ere fate of poet fixed thy soul to dwell 

In this Xew England home. 

Here art thou poet. — more than wari'ior. priest; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast. 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains. 

These thou wert sent to teach : 
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins. 

Is turned to gentle speech. 



Xot less, but more, than others hast thou striven ; 

IXv victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven. 

Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pui'e of freedom and of right. 

Thou hadst thy one reward; 
Thy prayei-s were heard, aud flashed upon thy sight 

The coming of the Lord I 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs, 

Shmibers the blade of truth : 
But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 

The eager hope of youth. 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above : 
Men know thee most as one that loves his i"ace. 

And bless thee with their love I 

Bayard Taylor. 



MY PSALM. 



MOLTIX no more my vanished years : 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west-winds blow, aud, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run; 

The windows of my soul I thro\\- 
"Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear; 
But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land. 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break mj"^ pilgrim staff. — I lay 

Aside the toiling oar; 
The angel sought so far awav 

I welcome at mj' door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn. 
Nor freshness of the flowers of ]May 

Blow through the autumn morn; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringdd lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in tiie brook 

Shall see its image given; — 

The woods shall wear their i-obes of praise. 
The south-wind softly sigh. 

And sweet, calm daj's in golden haze 
Melt down the amber skj-. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 
Rebuke an age of wrong; 



The graven flowers that WTeathe the sw^ord 
Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — 
To build as to destroj' ; 

Nor less my heart for others feel 
That I the more enjoy. 

All as God wills who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 

Enough that blessings undeserved 

Have marked my erring track; — 

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved. 
His chastening turned me back; — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood. 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; — 

That death seems but a covered way 

AVhich opens into light. 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight; — 

That care and trial seem at last, 

Through Memory's sunset air. 

Like mountain-ranges overpast, 
In purple distance fair; — 

That all the jarring notes of life 

Seem blending in a psalm. 
And all the angels of its stinfe 

Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart. 

And so the west-winds play: 
And all the windows of my heart 

I open to the day. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



-s-.<x0m:,\ 



Part IX. 



33ftt nnb Hutnor 



■'~"°"^(eX^sSra<^S^ 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



— "O^- •■j^.-O"^ 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 



ROHX GILPIN was a citizen 
Of credit and renown, 
*' A train -baud captain eke was he 
Of famous Loudon town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
"Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

"To-naorrow is our wedding-day. 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

"My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself, and children three. 
Will fill the chaise : so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, "I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she. my dearest dear. 

Therefore shall it be done. 

"I am a linen-draper bold. 

As all the world doth know. 
And my good friend the calender 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

And, for that wine is dear. 
We will be furnished with our own. 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; 

O'erjoyed was he to find. 
That, though on pleasure she was bent. 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought. 

But yet was not allowed 
'J'o drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So, three doors off the chaise was stayed. 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 



Smack went the whip, i-ound went the wheels, 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane ; 
And up he got, in haste to ride. 

But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come iu. 

So down he came; for loss of time. 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came down-stairs, 

" The wine is left behind! " 

" Good lackl " quoth he — "yet briug it me. 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword. 

Wlaen I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that he loved. 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side. 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe. 
His long, red cloak, well brushed and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution and good heed. 



.585 



586 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



But finding soon ii smoother road 

Beueath his Avell-shod feet. 
ITie snoiting beast began to trot. 

Which galled him in his seat. 

So •• Fair and softl}"." John he cried. 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

AVho cannot sit upi-ight. 
He grasped the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
"\Miat thing tipon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; 

Away went hat and wig; 
He little dreamed, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly 

Like streamer long and gay. 
Till, loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew awa}% 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung: 
A bottle swinging at each side. 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children sci-eamed. 

Up flew the windows all; 
And every sold cried out, -'Well done I "' 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Awaj' went Gilpin — who but he? 

His fame soon spread around ; 
" He carries weight I he rides a race! 

"T is for a thousand pound I " 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

"Twas wonderful to view. 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

llieir gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

AYere shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
\Miich made his horse's flanks to smoke, 

As they had basted been . 

But still he seemed to carry weight. 

With leathern girdle braced; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 



ITius all through merrj' Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the A\'ash 

Of Edmonton so gay; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way. 
Just like unto a trundling mop. 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did lide. 

''Stop. stop. John Gilpiu.I — Here's the house- 

They all at once did cry I 
"The dinner waits, and we are tired: "" 

Said Gilpin. '■ So am I! " 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tany there ; 
For why? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew. 

Shot by an archer strong; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

TTie middle of my song. 

Awaj' went Gilpin out of breath. 

And sore against his will, , 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim. 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 

And thus accosted him : 

'■What news! what news! your tidings tell. 

Tell me j-ou must and shall — 
Sa}- why bareheaded j-ou are come 

Or whj' j'ou come at all? "' 

Now Gili)in had a pleasant wit. 

And loved a timelj' joke; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke : 

•■I came because your horse would come: 

And, if I well forebode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin. 
Returned him not a single word, 

But to the house went in. 

^Alienee straight he came with hat and wig : 

A wig that flowed behind. 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comelv in its kind. 



Wl'i' AND HUMOK. 



587 



He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit : 
"Mj' head is twice as big as yours, 

They tlierefore must needs lit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away. 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case." 

Said John, "It is my wedding-day. 
And all the world would stare. 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

'•I am in haste to dine; 
'T was for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! 

For which he paid full dear; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And galloped off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

AVent Gilpin's hat and wig : 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why? — they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far awaj'. 

She pulled out half a crown; 

And thus unto the youth she said 
That drove them to the Bell, 



This shall be yours, when you bring back 
My husband safe and well." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 

By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done. 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-bo.v's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road. 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With post-boy scampering in the i-ear. 

They i-aised the hue-and-cry : — 

"• Stop thief I stop thief! — a highwayman! " 

Not one of them was mute; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space; 
The tollmen thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did. and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the KingI 

And Gilpin long live he! 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 

William Cowper. 



-•-a— 9-: 



WORDS AND THEIR USES. 



[A satire on slang phrases.] 



i^ESPECTED VOF'E : From these few lines my 

^S0^ whereabouts thee "11 learn — 

X Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern : 
i The language of this people is a riddle unto me, 
f And words, \\'ith them, are figments of a reck- 
I less mockery! 

For instance: As I left the cars, an imp with smutty 

face. 
Said "Shine?" "Nay. I '11 not shine," I said, "except 

with inward grace! " 
"Is 'inward grace' a liquid or a paste?" asked this 

young Turk; 
"Hi Daddy! What is 'inward grace'? How does 

the old thing work? " 



'• Friend," said I to .Tehu, whose breath suggested gin, 
"Can thee convey me straightway to a reputable 

inn?" 
His answer's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget — 
Instead of simply yea or na.y, he gruffl}' said "You 

bet!" 

"Nay. nay. I shall not bet," said I, "for that would 

be a sin — 
Why don't thee answer plainly: Can thee take me 

to an inn? 
Thy vehicle is doubtless meant to carrj^ folk about 

in — 
Then why prevaricate?" Said he, perversely, '-Now 

yer shoutin' I " 



5S8 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



"Xay. veril}", I shouted not."' quoth I, •■my speech 
is mild: 

But tbiue — 1 grieve to saj- it — with falsehood is de- 
filed. 

Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of 
guile."' 

•'See here! my livelj- moke," said he. "You sling on 
too much stj'lel "' 

••I've had these plain drab garments some twenty 
j-ears and more."" said I. 

And when thee sa}-s I -sling on stj'le," thee tells a will- 
ful lie! "" 

At that he pranced around as if " a bee were in'his 
bonnet."' 

And, with hostile demonstrations, inquired if I was 
'• on it!" 

"On what? Till thee explains thj'self. I cannot tell," 

I said ; 
He swore that something was '-too thin:" moreover 

it was " plaj'ed! "" 
But all his jargon was surpassed, in wild absurdity. 
Bj' threats, profanely emphasized. - to put a head on 

me! " 

" Xo son of Belial."' said I. - that miracle can do! "* 
Whereat he fell upon me with blows and curses, too. 
But failed to work that miracle — if such was his 

design — 
For instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite 

off mine! 



Thee knows 1 cultivate the peaceful habit of our sect, 
But this man"s conduct wrought on me a singular 

effect ; 
For when he slapped mj' broad-brim off, aud asked, 

"How "s that for high"? "' 
It roused the Adam in me. and I smote him hip and 

thigh! 

The throng then gave a specimen of calumny broke 
loose. 

And said I"d "snatched him bald-headed,"" aud like- 
wise "cooked his goose!"" • 

Although. I solemnly aflSLrm, I did not pull his hair. 

Xor did I cook his poultry — for he had no poultry 
there ! 

They called me "Bully boy.'" although I've seen nigh 
three-score year; 

And said that I was "lightning "" when I "got up on 
my ear! "' 

And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear, or 
dressed in drab, 

"You know how "t is yourself!"" said one inconse- 
quential blab! 

Thee can conceive that by this time. I was somewhat 

perplexed ; 
Yea, the placid spirit in me has seldom been so-vexed; 
I tarried there no longer, for plain-spoken men — like 

me — 
With such perverters of our tongue, can have no 

unity. 

Fl{ANK ClIVE. 



THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. 



^AXY a long) long year ago, 

Xantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though "lying low,"" 
How near Xew York their schooners ran. 

They greased the lead before it fell, 
Aud then by sounding, through the night. 

Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 
Thev alwaj's guessed their reckoning right. 

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, 
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot; 

And so belo3V he'd "douse the glim,""— 
After, of course, his "something hot."' 

Snug in his berth, at eight o"clock, 
This ancient skipper might be found ; 

Xo matter how his craft would rock. 
He slept, — for skippers" naps are sound. 

The watch on deck would now aud then 
Riui down and wake him, with the lead; 

He'd up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead! 



One night 'twas Jotham Mardeu's watch, 

A curious wag — the pedler's son ; 
And so he mused (the wanton wretch!) 

"To-night I"ll have a grain of fun. 

"We're all a set of stupid fools, 
To think the skipper knows, by tasting, 

"Wliat ground he's on; Xantucket schools 
Don"t teach such stuff, with all their basting! 

And so he took the well-greased lead, 
And rubbed it o"er a box of earth 

That stood on deck — a par.snip-bed, — 
And then he sought the skipper's berth. 

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." 
The skipper yawned, i^ut out his tongue. 

Opened his eyes in wondrous haste, 
Aud then upon the floor he sprung! 

The skipper stormed and tore his hair. 

Hauled on his boots and roared to Harden — 
" Xantucket's sunk, and here we are 

Right over old Marni Hackett's garden ! " 

James Thomas Fields. 




WIT AND HUMOK. 589 

GLUGGITY GLUG. 

JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, " This uew mode of docking," the friar then said. 
And he had drunk stoutly at supper; " I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; 

He mounted his horse in the night at the door And "tis cheap, for he never can eat off his head. 
And sat with his face to the crupper. While I am engaged at the bottle, 

"Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead Which goes gluggity, gluggitj'—glug—glug—glug." 

to remorse, ,„, ^ ^ , ^ . 11,11^ 

The steed made a stop — m a pond he had got, 
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, ^^ ^^^^ ^.^^^^^. ^^^. ^nnking than grazing ; 

Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, q^^^j^ ^^^ ^ ^.j^^.^ . . .^ .^ ^^...^^^^ headless horses should 

While I was engaged at the bottle, ^ ^^ 

Which wentgluggitJ^ gluggity-glug-glug-glug." -g^^^ ^^ ^;..^^ ^^,.^^ ^^^.^, ^^.j^ .^ amazing!" 

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, 
The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale In the pond fell this sou of a pottle; 

"Pwas the friar's road home, straight and level. Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his 

But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his nose — 

tail, I wish I were over a bottle. 

So he scampered due north like a devil. Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." 

George Colman the Younger. 



MR. SCHMTI)T\S MISTAKE. 

GEEPS me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peesnis, 
bud I ton't got mooch gapital to vork mit, so I finds id hard vork to get me all 
der gredits vot I voixld like. Last veek I hear aboud some goots dot a barty vas 
going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gife me der refusal 
of dose goots for a gouple a days. He gave me der refusal — dot is, he sait I gouldn't 
haf dem — but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, and den if mine 
schtanding in peesnis vas goot berhaps ve might do somedings togedder. Veil, I vas 
behint mine gotinter yesderday ven a shentleman gomes in und dakes me py der hant 
und say: "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve." I say, "yaw," und den I dinks to mineself, dis 
vas de man vot has dose goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbi'ession mit 
him so ve gould do some peesnis. " Dis vas goot schtore," he says, looking aroundt, 
" bud you ton't got a pooty pig schtock already." I vas avraid to let him know dot I 
only hat 'bout a tousand tollars voort off goots in der blace, sol says: " You ton't vould 
dink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, aind id?" He says: " You 
ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible?" I says: "Yaw." T meant dot id vas bossible, 
dough it vas n't so, vor I vas like Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der " olt elm " on 
Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadget, und gould n't dell some lies aboudt id. " \'ell," 
says der schentleman, " I dinks you ought to know petter as anybody else vot yoit haf 
got in der schtore," and den he takes a leedle book vrom his bocket oudt, and say: 
" Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars." I ask him vat he means by " poots 
me town," und den he says he vas von off der daxmen, or assessors off broperty, und 
he tank me so kindly as nefer vos, pecause he say T vas sooch an honest Deutscher, and 
tidn't dry and sheat der gofermants. I dells you vot id vos, T tidn't veel an}^ more 
better as a hundord ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt off mine schtore, und der nexd 
dime I makes free mit sdrangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt. 

Charles F. Adams. 



590 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE WONDERFUL "OXE-HOSS SHAY." 



SAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
That was built in such a logical way. 
It ran a hundred years to a day. 
And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, 
I'll tell you what happened, without delay — 
Scaring the parson into fits. 
Frightening people out of their wits- 
Have you ever heard of that, I saj'? 

Seventeen hundred and tifty-tive, . 
Georgius S'-cundus was then alive — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
Tliat was the year when Lisbon town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
And Braddock"s army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthcxuake-daj- 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Xow, in building of chaises. I tell you what, 

There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot - 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. 

In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill. 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still. 

Find it somewhere you nuist and will — 

Above or below, or within or without — 

And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 

A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. 

But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do. 
With an •' I dew \Tim " or an •• I tell yeou " ) — 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'X' the keounty "n' all the kentry i-aoun'; 
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown : — 
'• Fnr," said the Deacon. •• 't is mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' place mns' stan" the strain; 
"X" the way f fix it, uz I maintain. 

Is only jest 
To make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 

"Wliere he could find the strongest oak. 

That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — 

That was for spokes, and floor, and sills: 

He sent for lancewood, to make the thills: 

The crossbars were ash. from the straightest trees 

The pauels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese. 

But lasts like iron for things like these; 

The hubs from logs from the "Settler's elluin " — 

Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — 

Never an ax had seen their chips. 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. 

Spring, tire. axle, and linchpin too. 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 



Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 
Boot. top. dasher, from tough old hide, 
Found iu the pit where the tanner died. 
That was the way he " put her through." 
'■' There! "' said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew ! 

Do I I tell you. I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less! 

Colts grew horses, beards tm-ned graj', 

Deacon and deaconess dropped awaj', 

Childi-en and grandchildren — where were they? 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shaj% 

As fresh as on Lisbou-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — 
" Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
Eighteen hundi'ed and twenty came — 
Running as usual — nmch the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive; 
And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large : 

Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) 

First of November — the Earthquake-day. — 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay — 
But nothing local, as one may say — 
There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. 
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore 
And spring, and axle, and hub encore. 
And yet. as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November. 'Fifty-five ! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now. small boys, get out of the way I 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

"Huddup! " said the parson. — Off went they. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



591 



The parson wa^ working his Sunday text — 

Had got to Jif tidy, and stopped perplexed 

At what the — Moses — was coming next. 

All at once the horse stood still. 

Close by the meet'u"-house ou the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a spill — 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 

iVt half-past nine by the nieet'n'-house clock — 

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 



What do you think the i^arson found, 
When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once — 
All at once, and nothing first — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. — 
End of the wonderful one-boss shay. 
Logic is Logic. That" s all I say. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



THE SMACK IN" SCHOOL. 



DISTRICT school not far away, 
"Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, 
Was humming with its wonted noise 
Of three-score mingled girls and boys. 
Some few upon their tasks intent. 
But more on furtive mischief bent. 
The while the master's downw ard look 
Was fastened on a copy-book; 
When suddenly, behind his back. 
Rose shai'p and clear a rousing smack! 
As 'twere a battery of bliss 
Let off in one tremendous kiss! 
" Whafs that? " the startled master cries; 
"That, thir," a little imp replies, 
"Wath William Willi th, if you pleathe— 
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " 
With frown to make a statue thrill. 
The master thundered. '-Hither, Will! " 
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track. 
With stolen chattels on his back, 



W^ill hung his head in fear and shame, 

And to the awful presence came, — 

A great, green, bashful simpleton. 

The butt of all good-natured fun. 

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 

'The threatener faltered — "'I'm amazed 

That you, my biggest pupil, should 

Be guilty of an act so rude ! 

Before the ^^■hole set school to boot — 

What evil genius put you to"t? "" 

"'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, 

" I did not mean to be so bad; 

But when Susannah shook her curls. 

And whispered I was 'fraid of girls, 

And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 

I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 

But up and kissed her ou the spot! 

I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not, 

But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo- 

I though she kind o" wished me to!" 

William Pitt Palmer. 



^y-vSa--^- 



THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 



|T was six men of Indostan 
s To learning much inclined, 
f "Who went to see the Elephant 
" (Though all of them were blind,) 
That each by observation 
Might satisfy his mind. 



The Second, feeling of the tusk, 
Cried : "Ho ! what have we here. 

So very round and smooth and sharp? 
To me 't is mighty clear 

This wonder of an Elephant 
Is very like a spear!" 



The First approached the Elei^hant. 

And. happening to fall 
Against his broad and sturdy side. 

At once began to bawl : 
"God bless me! but the Elephant 

Is very like a wall!" 



The Third approached the animal. 

And. happening to take 
The squirming trunk within his hands, 

Thus boldly up and spake : 
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant 

Is very like a snake!" 



592 



THE GOLDEX i'REASURY. 



The Fourth reached out his eager haud. 

Aud felt about the kuee : 
"AVhat most this Avoudi-ous beast is like 

Is uiigJity plaiu." quoth he; 
" "Tis clear enough the elephant 

Is very like a tree." 

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 
Said : "E'en the blindest man 

Can tell what this resembles most ; 
Deny the fact who can. 

ITiis marvel of an Elephant 
Is very like a fan I'' 

The .Sixth no sooner had begun, 

About the beast to grope. 
Than, seizing on the swinging taU 

That fell within his scope. 



"I see," quoth he. -the Elephant 
Is very like a rope I" 

And so these men of Indostan 

Disputed loud and long. 
Each in his own opinion 

Exceeding stiff and strong. 
Though each was partly in the right, 

Aud all were in the wrong? 

MORAJL. 

So, oft in theologic wars 

The disputants. I ween. 
Eail on in utter ignorance 

Of what each other mean. 
And prate about an Elephant 

Xot one of them has seen I 



Joiix G. Saxe. 



THE SPIDER AXD THE FLY 



ILL you walk into my parlor? " said the spider " Sweet creature," said the spider. •• you "re witty and 
to the tly. you "re wise: 

^n^ ■■ *T is the prettiest little parlor that ever you How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant 
JH. did spy : areyom-eyesl 

The way into my parlor is up a winding stair. I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf. 

And I've got many curious things to show when you If you step in one moment, dear, you shall behold 

are t'uere."" yourself."" 

"O no. no."" said the little llv. •• to ask me is in vain. '■ I thank vou, gentle su,"" she said.-- for what vou 



please to say, 
And bidding you good morning now. Til call another 
day."" 

The spider turned him round about, aud went into his 

den. 
For well he knew the silly Hy would soon come back 

again ! 
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner slj'. 



For who goes up your winding stair can ne"er come 
down again."" 

'• I"ui sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up 

so high : 
Will you rest upon my little bed? "" said the spider to 

the fly : 
" There are pretty curtains drawn around : the sheets 

are fine and thin. 

And if you like to rest awhile. I "11 snugly tuck you And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. 

in! "■ Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did 

•- O no. no."" said the little fly. --for I"ve often heard sing: 

it said. -• Come hither, hither, pretty fly. with the pearl and 

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your silver wing; 

'led! "" Your robes are green and puqole. — there "s a crest 

upon your head; 

Said the cunning spider to the fly. •- Dear friend, what Your ej-es are like the diamond bright, but mine are 

can I do dull as lead I •' 
To prove the warm affection I"ve always felt for you? 

I have within my pann-A" good store of all that"s nice; Alas! alas! how very soon this silly little fly, 

I'm sure you "re very welcome. — will you please to Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting 

take a slice? "" by; 

*' O no, no," said the little fly. -• kind sii-. that cannot With buzzing wings she held aloft, then near and 

be. nearer drew. 

I've heard what 's in your pantry, and I do not Avish Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and her green 

to .«ee." and purple hue. — 



WIT .VND HUMOR. 



593 



Thinking only of her crested head, — poor, foolish And now, deai- little children, who may this story 

thing- ! At last, read. 

Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you, ne'er give 

fast. heed ; 

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal Unto an evil counsellor close heart and ear and eye, 

den. And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the 
Within his little pai-lor, — but she ne'er came out fly. 



again ! 



Mary Howitt. 



A MODEST WIT. 



^^ SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East— 
^H^ Haughty, being great — purse-proud, being 
"^^ rich— 

_^ A governor, or general, at the least, 

"^ I have forgotten which — 
Had in his family a humble youth. 

Who went from England in his patron's suite, 
An unassuming boy, in truth 

A lad of decent parts, and good repute. 

This youth had sense and spirit; 

But yet with all his sense. 

Excessive diffidence 
Obscured his merit. 

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine. 
His honor, proudly free, severely merry. 

Conceived it would be vastly fine 
To crack a joke upon his secretary. 

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or ti-ade. 
Did your good father gain a livelihood? '" — 

"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said. 
"And in his time was reckoned good." 



"A saddler, eh ! and taught you Greek, 

Instead of teaching you to sew ! 
Pray, why did not your father make 

A saddler, sir, of you?" 

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, 

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. 

At length Modestus, bowing low. 
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 

" Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
Your father's trade!" 

"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! 
My father's trade ! Why, blockhead, are you mad? 
My father, sir, did never stoop so low — 
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." 

" Excuse the liberty I take," 

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, 
"Pray, why did not your father make 

A gentleman of 3'ou?" 

Selleck Osborne. 




MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE GJST SHIRT BUTTOI^S. 

|HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this 
morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle; people don't come to bed to 
whistle. But it's like you ; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. 
ii- Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. 
Do let you rest ? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, 
and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all daylong: it's very hard if 'I can't speak a 
word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once 
in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. 
You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a 
passion. You were not in a passion, wern't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion 
is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to 
know that. It's a pity, you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button off 
your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a 
needle and thread in my hand ; what with you and the children I'm made a perfect 

37 



594 THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt 
— what do you say " ah " at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most. 
I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I 
only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married I "I should like to 
know where were your buttons then? Yes, it is worth talking of. But that's how you 
always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak, you 
won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor 
woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose 
she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you 
have of marriage. Ha ! if poor women only knew what they had to go through ! What 
with buttons and one thing and another ! They'd never tie themselves up to the best 
man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? — Why, do much better 
without you, I'm certain. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off 
the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that j^ou might have something to talk 
about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, w^hen you like, for anything! All I know- is, 
it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater 
slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's 
one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble 
you a great while. Ha, you may laugh ! And I dare say you would laugh ! I've no 
doubt of it ! That's your love; that's your feeling. I know that I'm sinking every day, 
though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife 
will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll 
think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. 

Douglas Jerrold. 

JOHN DAVIDSON. 



.irOiT- 



|OHN Davidson and Tib his wife " If you're the maister o" the house, 

1^ Sat toastin' theii- taes ae night, It "s I'm the misti-ess o' it; 

When soniethin' started on the fluir An' I ken best what's i' the house — 

An' blinked by their sight. Sae I tell ye 't was a rat.'" 

" Guidwife ! " quo' John, '* did ye see that mouse? " Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae make the brose, 

Whar sorra was the cat? "' An' ca' it what ye please." 

"A mouse? " "Ay, a mouse." — " Na, na, Guid- Sae up she gat an' made the brose, 

man, "While John sat toastin' his taes. 

It wasna a mouse, 'twas a rat." 

They suppit, an' suppit. an' suppit the brose, 

'' Oh, oh! Guidwife, to think ye've been An' aye their lips played smack; 

Sae lang about the house Thej"- suppit, an' suppit. au' suppit the brose 

An' na to ken' a mouse frae a rat! Till tibieir lugs began to crack. 

Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse ! " 

'' Sic fules we were to fa' out. Guidwife, 
•■ I've seen raair mice than you, Guidman, About a mouse." "A what! 

Au' what think ye o' that? It^s a lee you tell, an' I say again 

Sae baud your tongue an' say nae mair— ^ wasna a mouse, 'twas a rat." 

I tell ye 'twas a rat." 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? 

•• Me baud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! My faith, but ye craw croose ! — " 

I'll be maister o' the house— I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't.— 

I saw it as plain as een could see, 'Xwas a mouse." — " 'Twas a rat."— '"Twas a 

An' I tell ye 't was a mouse! " mouse." 



WIT AND HUMOE. 



595 



VVi' that she struck him o'er the povv: 

" Ye dour auld doit, tak' that! 
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumiah! 

'Twasarat." — -'Twas a mouse! " — "'Twas a rat! 

She sent the brose-cup at his heels 

As he hirpled ben the house; 
But he shoved out his head as he steekit the door. 

An' cried, •' 'Twas a mouse, 'twas a mouse! " 



Yet when the old carle fell asleep, 

She paid him back for that, 
An' roared into his sleepin' lug, 

" 'Twas a rat, 'twas a rat, 'twas a rat! " 

The deil be wi' me, if I think 

It was a beast at all; 
Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, 

She found wee Johnnie's ball. 



3-'-ic^^ 



THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 



"EKE'S a big washing to be done — 
One pair of hands to do it — 
Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, 
How will I e'er get through it? 

Dinner to get for six or more, 

No loaf left o'er from Sunday; 
And baby cross as he can live — 

He's always so on Monday. 

'Tis time the meat was in the pot. 
The bread was worked for baking. 

The clothes were taken from the boil — 
Oh dear! the baby's waking! 

Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh! 

I wish he'd sleep a little, 
Till I could run and get some wood, 

To hurry up the kettle. 

Oh dear! oh dear! if P comes home, 

And finds things in this pother. 

He'll just begin to tell me all 
About his tidy mother! 

How nice her kitchen used to be. 
Her dinner always ready 



Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 
Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! 

And then will come some hasty words, 
Right out before I'm thinking — 

They say that hasty words from wives 
Set sober men to drinking. 

Now, is not that a great idea. 
That men should take to sinning. 

Because a weary, half-sick ^ife. 
Can't always smile so winning? 

When I was young I used to earn 

My living without trouble. 
Had clothes and pocket money, too. 

And hours of leisure double. 

I never dreamed of such a fate. 
When I, a-lass was courted^ ^ 

Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, 
chambermaid, laundress, daiiy-woman, and scrub 
generally, doing the work of six. 
For the sake of being supported ! 

Mrs. F. D. Gage. 



THE OLD MAN IN THE WOOD. 



|iv^HERE was an old man who lived in the wood, 
As you shall plainly see, 
't?" He thought he could do more work in a day 
J4 Than his wife could do in three. 

"With all my heart," the old woman said, 

"And if you will allow. 
You shall sta)' at home to-daj% 

And I '11 go follow the plough. 

"And you must milk the tiny cow. 

Lest she should go dry ; 
And yon must feed the little pigs 

That are within the sty. 



"And you must watch the speckled hen, 

Lest she should go astray; 
Not forgetting the spool of yarn 

That I spin every day." 

The old woman took her stick in her hand. 
And went to follow the plough : 

The old man put the pail on his head, 
And went to milk the cow. 

But Tiny she winced, and Tiny she flinched, 

And Tiny she tossed her nose. 
And Tiny she gave him a kick on the shin. 

Till the blood ran down to his toes. 



596 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



And a '• ho, Tiuy! "' and a "lo. Tiny! " 
And a '-pretty little cow stand still;'" 

And '■ if ever I milk you again." he said, 
"It shall be against my will." 

And then he -^vent to feed the pigs 

That were Avithiu the stj' ; 
He knocked his nose against the shed. 

And made the blood to flj-. 

And then he watched the speckled hen, 
Lest she should go astray; 



But he quite forgot the spool of yarn, 
That his wife spun every day. 

And when the old woman came home at night, 

He said he could plainly see. 
That his ^vife could do more work in a day 

Than he could do in three. 

And then he said how well she ploughed 

And made the furrows even — 
Said his Tvife could do more work in a day 

Than he could do in seven. 



-^^f-.-tg- 




THE ORIGIIsr OF ROAST PIG. 



ANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging 
enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages 
ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just 
as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely 
hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his 
Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the 
term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes 
on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take 
to be the elder brother) was accidentally discovered in the manner 
followino;. The swineherd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one 
morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cot- 
tao-e in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond 
of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape 
into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part 
of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry 
antediluvian make-shift of a building, 3'ou may think it), what was of much more 
importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. 
China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods 
that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so 
much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again 
with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss 
of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his 
hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed 
his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. "\'\Tiat could it proceed 
from? — not from the burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell before — indeed this was 
by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence 
of this unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, 
weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. 
He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any 
signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby 
fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with 



WIT AND HUMOR. 597 

his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for before him 
no man had known it) he tasted — crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. 
It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The 
truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the pig that smelt so, and 
the pig that tasted so delicious; and surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, 
he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and 
was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid 
the smoking rafters, armed with a retributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, 
began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hailstones, which 
Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure which 
he experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences 
he might feel in those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but he could not beat 
him from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it; when, becoming a little more 
sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue occurred : 

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that 
you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you ! 
but you must be eating fire, and I know not what — what have you got there, I say!" 
" O father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats." The ears 
of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever he 
should beget a son that should eat burnt pig. 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out 
another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the 
fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste — O 
Lord!" — with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would 
choke. 

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether 
he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling 
scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, 
he in his turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for 
pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript 
here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never 
left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter. 

Bo-bo was stx'ictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbors would 
certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of 
improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange 
stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti' s cottag-e was burnt down now more 
frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break 
out in broad day, others in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure 
was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more 
I'emarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than 
ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father 
and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. 
Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and vei'dict about to 
bo pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of 
which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and 



598 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



they ?ii handled it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before 
them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all 
the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given — to the surprise of the 
whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present — without leaving the box, 
or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not 
Guilty. 

The judo-e, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the 
decision ; and when the court was dismissed, went privily and bought up all the pigs 
that could be had for love or money. In a few days his Lordship's town house was 
observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen 
but fire in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. 
The insurance offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every 
day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost 
to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, 
says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh 
of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (burnt, as they call it) without 
the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form 
of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, I forget 
in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful 
and seemingly the most obvious arts, make their way among mankind 

Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed, 
that if a worthy pretext for so dangei-ous an experiment as setting houses on fire 
(especiall}^ in these days) could be assigned in favor of any culinary object, that 
pretext and excuse might be found in roast pig. 

Chaeles Lamb. 



^e^ 



THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER. 



^^^ FRENCHMAN ouce. — so runs a certain ditty,— 
Had crossed the Straits to famous Loudon citj', 
!::x To get a living by the arts of France, 
'l' And teach his neiglibor, rough John Bull, to 

dance. 
But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill; 
His fortunes sank from low to lower still; 
Until, at last, — pathetic to relate. — 
Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. 
Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door, 
And gazing in. with aggravation sore. 
He mused within himself what he should do 
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too. 
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan, 
\nd thus to execute it straight began: 
A piece of common brick he quickly found, 
And with a harder stone to powder gi'onnd, 
Tlien wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece 
Of paper, labeled ' Poison for de Fleas." 
And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try, 
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. 



From street to street he cried, with lust}' yell, 
•'Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to 

sell!" 
And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last, 
For soon a Avoman hailed him as he passed. 
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot, 
And made him five crowns richer on the spot. 
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, 
AVent into business on a larger scale; 
And soon, throughout all London, scattered he 
The "onlv genuine poudare for de flea." 
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation 
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, 
He thought he heard himself in anger called ; 
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled,— 
In not a mild or very tender mood, — 
From the same window where before she stood. 
"Hey, there," said she. "you Monsher Powder-man! 
Escape my clutches now, sir, if yon can ; 
I "11 let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know 
That decent people won't be cheated so." 



WIT AJSTD HUjVIOR. 



i99 



Then sijoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh, 
With humble attitude and tearful eye; — 
"Ah, Madame! s'il vous plait, atteudez vous,— 
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you : 
My poudare gran I maguifique ! why abuse him? 



Aha ! 1 show you how to use him ; 

First, you must wait until you catch de flea : 

Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see ; 

And when he laugh, — aha I he ope his throat: 

Den poke the poudare down! — Begar! he choke. 



THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. 



.^b- 



^POR his religion, it was fit 

To match his learning and his wit. 
'T was Presbyterian true blue, 
For he was of that stubborn crew 
Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
To be the true church militant ; 
Such as do build their faith upon 
The holy text of pike and gun ; 
Decide all controversies by 
Infallible artiller}' ; 
And prove their doctrines orthodox 
By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
Call flre. and sword and desolation, 
A godly thorough reformation. 
Which always must be carried on, 
And still be doing never done ; 
As if religion were intended 
For nothing else but to be mended; 
A sect whose chief devotion lies 
In odd perverse antipathies ; 
In falling out with that or this, 
And finding somewhat still amiss; 
More peevish, cross and splenetic, 
Than dog distraught or monkey sick ; 



That with more care keep holiday 

The wrong, than others the right way; 

Compound for sins they are inclined to. 

By damning those they have no mind to, 

Still so perverse and opposite, 

As if they worshiped God for spite ; 

The self- same thing they will abhor 

One way, and long another for ; 

Freewill they one way disavow, 

Another, nothing else allow; 

All piety consists therein 

In them, in other men all sin; 

Rather than fail they will defy 

That which they love most tenderly ; 

Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage 

Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; 

Fat pig and goose itself oppose. 

And blaspheme custard through the nose. 

The apostles of this fierce religion. 

Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon, 

To whom oiu" knight, by fast instinct 

Of wit and temper, was so linked, 

As if hypocrisy and nonsense 

Had got the advowson of his conscience. 

Samuel Butler. 



Jy-ic-^ 



TO A LOUSE. 



ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. 



^m^ 



|5^pA ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie? 
^py Your impudence protects you sairly: 

T I canna say but ye struut rarely 

I Owre gauze an' lace; 

1 Though, faith ! I fear ye dine but sparely 
On sic a place. 



Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations : 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 



Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner. 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady? 
Gae somewhere else, and seek j'our dinner 

On some poor body. 



Now baud you there, ye 're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight; 
Na. faith ye j^et! ye '11 no be right 

Till ye 've got on it. 
The very tapmost tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 



600 



THE GOLDElSr TREASUEY. 



My sootli; right bauld ye set your uose out, 
As plump and graj" as ouy grozet; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum ! 

1 'd gie j'ou sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I -wad ua been surprised to spy 
You on an auld "wife's llanneu toj'; 
Or aihlins some bit duddie boy, 

On 's \\yliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi, fie ! 

How daur ve do 't? 



O Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An" set your beauties a' abread I 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie "s makiu' I 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takia' ! 

O wad some jiower th<^ giftie gie us 

To see om'sePs as ithers see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
"VYhat airs in dress an' gait wad lea"e us, 

And ev'u devotion I 

Robert Bukns. 



-c — *-^i^;/^^^z/En. 



THE CHAMELEOiSr. 



-^ 



fFT has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
■\Vith eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post. 
Yet round the Avorld the blade has been 
To see whatever could be seen, 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
AVTiatever word you chance to drop, 
This traveled fool j'our mouth will stop ; 
'"Sir, if my judgment j'oull allow, 
I've seen — and sure I ought to know," 
So, begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travelers of such a cast. 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
And on their way in friendly chat, 
ISTow talked of this, and then of that. 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal,"' cries one, 
'•Sure never lived beneath the sim. 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
It's foot with triple claw disjoined; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ; and then its hue — 
"Who ever saw so fine a blue?" 

"Hold, there" the other quick replies, 
"'Tis green, I saw it with- these ej-es. 
As late with open mouth it lay. 
And warmed it in the sunny ray : 
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed 
And saw it eat the air for food.'' 
'•I've seen it. sir, as well as you, 
And must again aflirm it blue; 
At leisure I the beast surveyed. 
Extended in the coolins: shade." 



" 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!" 
'•Green!'' cries the other in a fuiy — 
'•AMiy, sir! — d' j-e think I 've lost my eyes?" 
" 'T were no great loss," the friend replies, 
"For if they always serve }"ou thus. 
You '11 find them of but little use." 

So high at last the contest rose. 
From words they almost came to blows; 
When luckil)' came bj' a third — 
To him the question thej' referred, 
And begged he 'd tell 'em, if he knew. 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother! 
The creature 's neither one nor t' other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candlelight: 
I marked it well — 't was black as jet — 
You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it j'et. 
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do: 
I '11 lay my life the thing is blue.'' 
"And I '11 be sworn tliat when j^ou 've seen 
The reptile, you "11 pronounce it green." 

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,'' 
Replies the man, ••! "11 turn him out: 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If you don't find him black, I "11 eat him." 
He said : then full before their sight 
Produced the beast, and lo! — 'twas white. 

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise — 
"My children," the chameleon cries. 
(Then first the creature found a tongue.) 
"You all are right, and all are wrong : 
When next you talk of what you view, 
Think others see as well as you : 
Kor wonder, if you find that none 
Prefers j'our eyesight to his own." 

James Mekkick. 



WIT AXD HUMOE. 



601 




EDITIIfa A.'N AGRIOULTUEAL PAPER 



HE sensation of being at work once again was luxurious, and I wrought 
all the week with unflagging pleasure. We went to press, and I 
waited a day with some solicitude to see whether my effort was 
going to attract any notice. As I left the oflice, toward sundown, a 
group of men and boys at the foot of the stairs dispersed with one 
impulse, and gave me passage-way, and I heard one or two of them 
say, "That's him!" I was naturally pleased by this incident. The 
next morning I found a similar group at the foot of the stairs, and 
scattering couples and individuals standing here and there in the 
street, and over the way, watching me with interest. The group sep- 
arated and fell back as I approached, and I heard a man say, " Look 
at his eye!" I pretended not to observe the notice I was attracting, 
but secretly I was pleased with it, and was purposing to write an account of it to my 
aunt. I went up the short flight of stairs, and heard cheery voices and a ringing laugh 
as I drew near the door, which I opened, and caught a glimpse of two young, rural-, 
lookino- men, whose faces blanched and lengthened when they saw me, and then they 
both plunged through the window, with a great crash. I was surprised. 

In 'about half an hour an old gentleman, with a flowing beard and a fine but 
rather austere face, entered, and sat down at my invitation. He seemed to have some- 
thing on his mind. He took off his hat and set it on the floor, and got out of it a 
red silk handkerchief and a copy of our paper. He put the paper on his lap, and, 
while he polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, he said : ' ' Are you the new 
editor?" I said I was. "Have you ever edited an agricultural paper before?" 
"No," I said; "this is my first attempt." Then this old pei'son got up and tore his 
joaper all into small shreds, and stamped on them, and broke several things with his 
cane, and said I did not know as much as a cow ; and then went out, and banged the 
door after him, and, in short, acted in such a way that I fancied he was displeased 
about something. But, not knowing what the trouble was, I could not be any help to him. 
But these thoughts were quickly banished, when the regular editor walked in ! [I 
thought to myself. Now if you had gone to Egypt, as I recommended you to, I might 
have had a chance to get my hand in; but you wouldn't do it, and here you are. I 
sort of expected you.] The editor was looking sad, and perplexed, and dejected. He 
surveyed the wreck which that old rioter and these two young farmers had made, and 
then said: " This is a sad business — a very sad business. There is the mucilage bottle 
broken, and six panes of glass, and a spittoon and two candlesticks. But that is not 
the worst. The reputation of the paper is injured, and permanently, I fear. True, 
there never was such a call for the paper before, and it never sold such a large edition 
or soared to such celebrity; but does one want to be famous for lunacy, and prosper 
upon the infirmities of his mind? My friend, as I am an honest man, the street out 
here is full of people, and others are roosting on the fences, waiting to get a glimpse 
of you, because they think you are crazy. And well they might, after reading your 



602 THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 

editorials. They are a disgrace to journalism. Why, what put it into your head that 
you could edit a paper of this nature? You do not seem to know the first rudiments 
of agriculture. You s^Deak of a furrow and a harrow as being the same thing; you 
talk of the moulting season for cows ; and you recommend the domestication of the 
pole-cat on account of its playfulness and its excellence as a ratter. Your remark that 
clams will lie quiet if music be played to them, was superfluous — entirely superfluous. 
Nothino- disturbs clams. Clams always lie quiet. Clams care nothing whatever about 
music. Ah I heavens and earth, friend, if you had made the acquiring of ignorance the 
study of your life, you could not have graduated with higher honor than you could 
to-day. I never saw anything like it. Your observation that the horse-chestnut, as an 
article of commerce, is steadily gaining in favor, is simply calculated to destroy this 
journal. I want you to throw up your situation and go. I want no more holiday — 
I could not enjoy it if I had it. Certainly not with you in my chair. I would always 
stand in dread of what you might be going to recommend next. It makes me lose 
all patience every time I think of your discussing oyster-beds under the head of 
'Landscape Gardening.' I want you to go. Nothing on earth could persuade me to 
take another holiday. Oh ! why didn't you tell me that you didn't know anything 
about agriculture ? ' ' 

" Tell you, you cornstalk, you cabbage, you son of a cauliflower I It's the first 
time I ever heard such an unfeeling remark. I tell you I have been in the editorial 
business going on fourteen years, and it is the first time I ever heard of a man's 
having to know anything in order to edit a newspaper. You turnip ! I take my 
leave, sir ! Since I have been treated as you have treated me, I am perfectly willing 
to go. But I have done my duty. I have fulfilled my contract, as far as I was 
permitted to do it. I said I could make your paper of interest to all classes, and I 
have. I said I could run your circulation up to twenty thousand copies, and if I had 
had two more weeks I'd have done it. And I'd have given you the best class of 
readers that ever an agricultural paper had — not a farmer in it, nor a solitary indi- 
vidual who could tell a water-melon from a peach-vine to save his life. You are the 
loser by this rupture, not me. Pie-plant. Adios." I then left. 

S. C. Clemens (Mark Twain). 
■#• ^s^^ =<^' 

THE BALLAD OF THE OY^STERMAN. 

^T was a tall young oystemian lived by the river- Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he : 

p^ side, " I oruess I "11 leave the skiff at home, for fear that 

X His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on folks should see ; 

I the tide; I read it in the story-book. that, for to kiss his dear, 

1 The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight Leander swam the Hellespont. — and I will swim this 

and slim, here." 

Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to 

, • And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the 

shining stream. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid. And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moon- 

Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade; light gleam; 

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to O there were kisses sweet as dew. and words as soft as 

say, rain.— 

"I 'ra ^^^de awake, young oysterman, and all the folks But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps 

away." again! 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



603 



Out spoke the aucient fishermau, — "O what was that, Down fell that pretty inaoceut, as falls a snow-white 
my daughter?"' lamb, 

'' "T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the Her hau- drooped round hei- pallid cheeks, like sea- 
water." weed on a olani. 

" And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off 

so fast?" ^^^® ^^^' '^^ose two loving ones! she waked not from 

'> It 's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that "s been a swim- ®^ swoimd, 

mino- past." ^^^ ^^ ^^'''^® taken with the cramp, and in the waves 

was drowned; 

Out spoke the aucient fisherman,—" Now bring me But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their 
my harpoon ! woe, 

I '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids 
soon." down below. 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



-J^O^-O-O^O. 



TOO LATE. 



f^HERE sat an old man on a rock. 

And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, — 
~^f^ That concern where we all must take stock, 
J4. Thongh our vote has no hearing or weight ; 
And the old man sang him an old. old song, — 
Never sang voice so clear and strong 
That it could drown the old man's for long. 
For he sang the song " Too late! too late! " 

"When we want, we have for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burned out of our brains, 
Every means shall he present to state; 
While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, 
While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old. 
When we 've matched our buttons the pattern is 
sold, 
And everything comes too late, — too late ! 

"■When strawberries seemed like red heavens, — 

Terrapin stew a wild dream, — 
When my brain was at sixes and sevens. 
If my mother had 'folks' and ice-cream. 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger, — 
But oh ! how I wished I were younger 
When the goodies all came in a stream ! in a 
stream ! 



'f I 've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver 

That it jars into torture to trot; 
My rowboat's the gem of the river, — 
Gout makes every knuckle a knot! , 
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, 
But no palate for menus, — no eyes for a dome, — 
Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at 
home. 
When no home but an attic he "d got, — he'd got! 

"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets. 

Where the tiles baked ni}^ brains all July, 
For gi-ound to grow two pecks of carrots. 
Two pigs of mj' own in a sty, 

A rosebush,— a little thatched cottage, — 
Two spoons — ^love — a basin of pottage ! — 
Now in freestone I sit, — and my dotage, — 
With a woman's chair empty close by, close by! 

" Ah ! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great; 
I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — 
On love's high throne of state; 
But the lips that kissed, and the arms that 

caressed. 
To a mouth grow'n stern with delay were pressed, 
a And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed. 
Had they only not come too late, — too late! " 
FiTz Hugh Ludlow. 
r-se-^ '^ 



THE WROl^G MAK 



|HE Honorable Demshire Hornet had a very unpleasant experience lately. Mark 

-, but for some reason failed to get 



Twain was advertised to lecture in — 
'^w^ around. In the emergency the lecture committee decided to employ Mr. Hornet 
•J'^' to deliver his celebrated lecture on temperance, but so late in the day was this 
arrangement made that no bills announcing it could be circulated, and the audience assem- 
bled, expecting the celebrated Innocent. Nobody in the town knew Mark, or had even 



604 THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

heard him lecture, but they had got the notion that he was funny, and went there prepared 
to laugh. Even those on the platform, except the chairman, did not know Mr. Hornet 
from Mark Twain, and so when he was introduced thought nothing of the name, as 
they knew Mark Twain was a nopi de plume, and supposed his real name was Hornet. 
The denouement is thus told: Mr. Hornet first remarked, "Intemperance is the curse 
of the country." The audience burst into a laugh. He knew it could not be at his 
remark, and thought his clothes must be awry, and he asked the chairman in a whisper 
if he was all right, and got "yes " for an answer. Then he said, " Rum slaj'^s more 
than disease!" — a louder laugh. He couldn't understand it, but went on: " It breaks 
up happy homes!" — still louder mirth. "It is carrying young men down to death 
and hell!" — a perfect roar, and applause. Mr. Hornet began to get excited. He 
thought they wei-e guying, but he proceeded: "We must crush the serpent!" — a 
tremendous howl of laughter. The men on the platform, except the chairman, 
squirmed as they laughed. Hornet couldn't stand it. " What I'm saying is gospel 
truth!" he cried. The audience fairly bellowed with mirth. Hornet turned to a 
man on the stage and said: "Do you see anything very ridiculous in my remarks or 
behavior?" " Yes, ha, ha — it's intensely funny — ha, ha, ha! Go on!" replied the 
roaring man. "This is an insult ! " cried Hornet, wildly dancing about. More laughter, 
and cries of " Go on. Twain! " And then the chairman got the idea of the thing, 
and rose and explained the situation, and the men on the stage suddenly quit* laughing, 
and the audience looked at each other in a mighty sheepish way, and the}^ quit laugh- 
ing, too. And then Mr. Hornet, being thoroughly mad, told them he had never before 
got into a town so entirely populated by fools and idiots, and having said that, he 
left the hall. And the assemblage then voted to censure Twain and the chairman, 
and dispersed amidst deep gloom. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 



•tH>t5* 



^m EESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed 
g*6 Truthful James : there, 

1^ I am not up to small deceit or anj- sinful games ; From those same hones, an animal that was extremely 
And I'll tell in simple language what I know rare; 

about the row And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of 
ITiat broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. the rules. 

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of 
But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan his lost mules. 

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man ; 

And if a member don't agree \\\t\i his peculiar whim. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was 
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on at fault; 

bim. It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family 

vault ; 

Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see, He was a most sarcastic man. this quiet Mr. Brown. 

Than the first six months' proceedings of that same And on several occasions he had cleaned out the 

society; town. 

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 

Jones. To say another is an ass — at least to all intent; 



WIT AND HUISIOR. 



605 



Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply hy heaving rocks at him to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, 
when 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdo- 
men ; 

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on 
the floor, 

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no 
more. 

For iu less time than I write it, every member did en- 
gage 
In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; 



And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger 

was a sin. 
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of 

Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper 

games, 
For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful 

James, 
And I 've told in simple language what I know about 

the row 
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. 

Bret Harte. 



LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS. 



LATELY lived in quiet ease. 

An" never wished to marry, O ! 
But when I saw my Peggy's face, 

I felt a sad quandary, O ! 
Though wild as ony Athol deer, 

She has trepanned me fairly, O ! 
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear 
Torment me late an' early, O ! 
O, love, love, love ! 

Love is like a dizziness; 
It winna let a poor body 
Gang about his biziuess ! 

To tell my feats this single week 

Wad mak a daft-like diary. O ! 
I drave my cart out ower a dike. 

My horses in a miry, O ! 
I wear my stockings white an' blue. 

My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O ! 
I drill the land that I should plough, 

An' plough the drills entirely, O! 
O, love, love, love ! etc. 

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, 
I rase to theek the stable, O ! 

I keust my coat an" plied away 
As fast as I was able, O ! 



I wrought that morning out an" out, 

As I'd been redding fire, O! 
When I had done and looked about, 

Gudefaith, it was the byre. O! 
O, love, love, love! etc. 

Her wily glance I '11 ne'er forget. 

The dear, the lovely blinkin o"t 
Has pierced me through an' through the heart, 

An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't. 
I tried to sing, I tried to pray. 

I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o"t, 
I ti-ied wi' sport to drive 't away, 

But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. 
0, love, love, love ! etc. 

Nae man can tell what pains I prove. 

Or how severe my pliskie, O ! 
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi" love 

Than ever I was wi" whiskej% O I 
For love has raked me fore an' aft, 

I scarce can lift a leggie, O ! 
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, 

An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O ! 
O, love, love, love ! etc. 

James Hogg. 



THE LAWYER'S INYOOATION TO SPRING. 



^^^HEREAS. on certain boughs and sprays 
Sijftjll^^ Now divers birds are heard to sing, 
/^\ ' And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 
!] Hail to the coming on of Spring ! 

The songs of those said birds arouse 
The memory of our youthful hours. 

As green as those said sprays and boughs. 
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. 



The birds aforesaid — happy pairs — 
Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines 

In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs. 
Administrators, and assigns. 

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, 
Where tender plaintiffs action bring, — 

Season of frolic and of sport. 
Hail as aforesaid, coming Spring! 

11. P. H. Broomell. 



606 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



RORY O'MORE 

jOUXG Eory O'More courted Kathleen bawn. — 

He was bold as a liawk, she as soft as the dawn ; 

He wished in his heart prettj^ Kathleen to 
please. 

And he thought the best waj' to do that was to 
tease. 
" Now Rory, be aisy!"' sweet Kathleen would cry, 
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, — 
" With yovu- tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I 'm 

about ; 
Faith ! j'ou 've tazed till I 've put on my cloak inside 

out.'' 
" Och! jewel,"' says Rory, '' that same is the way 
Ye 've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 0'3Iore. 



"Indeed then." says Kathleen, "don't think of the 

like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I "11 be bound — '' 
"Faith!" says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the 

ground." 
'■ Xow. Rory, I "11 cry if you don't let me go; 
Sure I dream every night that I"m hating j'ou so!" 



"Och!" says Rorj-, "that same I "m delighted to 

hear, 
For dhrames always go hy conthraries, my dear. 
So, jewel, kape dhraming that same till j-e die. 
And bright moi-niug willgive dirtyuight the black liel 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
Since "tis all for good luck,'" says bold Rory 0"More. 

've tazed me 



••Arrah, Kathleen, m\' darlint, you 
enough ; 

Sure I "ve thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and 
Jim Duff; 

And I 've made myself, drinking your health, quite a 
baste. 

So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."' 

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. 

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; 

And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with 
light. 

And he kissed her sweet lips, — don't you think he 
was right? 

" Xow, Rory, leave off. sir, — you "11 hug me no more, 

That's eight times to-day that you "ve kissed me be- 
fore." 

" Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure! 

For there "s luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 

Samuel Lo^t;r. 



•°o-^-^°0" 



SALLY IN OLTR ALLEY. 



tF all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like Pretty- Sally; 
She is the dai'ling of mj- heart. 

And lives in our alley. 
There's ne'er a lady in the land 

That's half so sweet as Sallj-; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets. 

And through the streets does cry them; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy them : 
But sm-e such folk can have no part 

In such a girl as SaUj' ; 
She is the darling of my heart 

And lives in our alle}'. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerelv ; 
My master comes, like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely : 
But let him bang, long as he will, 

I '11 bear it all for Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And lives in our alley. 



Of all the days are in the week, 

I dearly love but one day. 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturdaj- and Monday: 
For then I "m dressed, all in ray best. 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And lives in our allej-. 

My master carries me to chm-ch. 

And often am I blamed. 
Because I leave him in the lurch. 

Soon as the text is named : 
I leave the church in sermon time. 

And slink away to SaUy ; 
She is tlie darling of my heart. 

And lives in our alley. 

A\Tien Christmas comes about again, 

then I shall have money; 

I '11 hoard it up. and. box and all. 

1 '11 give it to my honey; 

Oh would it were ten thousand pounds, 

I 'd give it all to Sally: 
For she 's the darling of my heart. 

And lives in our alley. 



WIT AND HUMOE. 



607 



My master, and the neighbors all, 
Make game of me and Sally, 

And but for her I 'd better be 
A slave, and row a galley : 



But when my seven long yeai's are out. 

O then I "11 marry Sally, 
And then howhappilj^ we '11 live — 

But not in our alley. 

Henky Carey. 



BACHELOR'S HALL. 



SpliACHELOE'S Hall, what a quare-lookin' place 

g it is! 

"^ Kape me from such all the days of my life ! 

Ill Sure but I think what a burnin" disgrace it is, 

j Niver at all to be gettin' a wife. 

Pots, dishes, pans, an' such grasy commodities, 
Ashes and praty-skins, kiver the door; 

His cupboard "s a storehouse of comical oddities. 
Things that had niver been neighbors before. 

Say the old bachelor, gloomy an" sad enough. 

Placin' his tay-kettle over the lire; 
Soon it tips over — Saint Patrick! he 's mad enough, 

If he were prisent, to fight with the squire ! 

He looks for the platter— Grimalkin is scourin it ! 
Sure, at a baste like that, swearin'"s no sin; 



His dish-cloth is missing; the pigs are devouiin'it — 
Tunder and turf! what a pickle he 's in! 

When his male "s over, the table "s left sittin" so ; 

Dishes, take care of j'^ourselves if you can; 
Divil a drop of hot water will visit ye, — 

Och, let him alone for a baste of a man ! 

Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin', 
Say the old bachelor kneading his dough; 

Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin". 
How it would favor his palate, ye know ! 

Late in the night, when he goes to bed shiverin', 

Niver a bit is the bed made at all ; 
He crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin' ; — 

Bad luck to the pictur of Bachelor"s Hall ! 

John Finley. 



WOMAI^'S RIGHTS. 



jm. 



PICHT tent in a small town in Injiany one day last season, & while I was standin 
at the door takin money, a deppytashen of ladies came up and sed they was 
members of the Bunkumville Female Reformin & Wimmin's Rite's Associashun, 
and they axed me if they cood go in without payin. "Not exactly," sez I, 
"but you can pay without goin in." "Dew you know who we air?" said one of the 
wimmin — a tall and feroshus lookin critter, — "do you know who we air, Sir?" "My 
impreshun is," sed I, "from a kersory view, that you are shemales." "We air, Sur," 
said the feroshus woman — "we belong to a society whitch beleeves wimmin has I'ights — 
whitch beleeves in razin her to her proper speer — whitch beleeves she is endowed 
with as much intelleck as man is — which beleeves she is trampled on and aboosed — 
& who will resist hence4th & forever the incroachments of proud and domineering men." 
Durin her discourse, the excentric female grabbed me by the coat kollor & was 
swinging her umbreller wildly over my head. "I hope, marm," sez I, starting back, 
"that your intentions is honorable. I'm a lone man hear in a strange place. Besides, 
I've a wife to hum." "Yes," cried the female, "& she's a slave! Doth she ever 
dream of freedom — doth she never think of throwin off the yoke of tyranny, & 
thinkin and votin for herself? Doth she never think of these here things?" "Not 
bein a natral born fool," sed I, by this time a little railed, "I ken safely say that she 
dothun't?" "Oh, whot — whot ! " screamed the female, swingin her umbreller in the 
air. " Oh, what is the price that woman pays for her experience ! " "I don't know," 
sez I, "the price to my show is 15 cents pur individooal." "& can't our society go 



608 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



in free?" asked the female. "Not if I know it," sed I. "Crooil man!" she cried, 
& burst into teers. ""Won't you let my darter in?" sed anuther of the excentrick 
wimin, takin me afeckshunately by the hand. "Oh, please let my darter in, shee's a 
sweet gushin child of nature." "Let her gush," roared I, as mad as I cood stick at 
their tarnal nonsense: "let her gush." Whereupon they all sprung back with the 
simultanius observashun that I was a Beest. "My female friends," said I, " be4 you 
leeve, " I've a few remarks to I'emark: wa them well. The female woman is one of the 
greatest institooshuns of which this land can boast. Its onpossible to get along without 
her. Had there been no female wimin in the world, I shood scarcely be here with 
my unparaleld show on this very occashun. She is good in sickness — good in well- 
ness — good at all time. Oh, Avoman, woman I " I cried, m^^ feelins worked up to 
a hippoltick pitch, " You air a angle when you behave yourself, but when you take 
off your proper appariel & (mettyforically speakin) — get into pantyloons — when you 
desert your firesides, &, with beds full of wimin's rites noshun's go round like roarin 
lyons, seekin whom you may devour somebody — in short, when you undertake to play 
man, you play the devil and air an emfatic noosance. My female friends," I con- 
tinnered, as they were indignantly departin, "wa well what A. Ward has sed!" 

Charles F. Broa\ts:e (Artemus Ward). 



-^sS—©^ 



I WAS WITH GRANT. 






WAS AvitTi Grant — " the stranger said; 

Said the farmer, •• Say uo more, 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are wearj^ aud sore." 

"I was with Grant — '" the stranger said: 
Said the farmer, "Nay, no more — 

I i^rithee sit at my frugal board, 
And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy — my soldier boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps? 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 
In the smoke and the battle's roar.'' 

"I know him not." said the aged man, 

"And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant — " " Nay, nay, I know,'" 

Said the farmer, " Say no more; 



"He fell in battle — I see, alas! 

Thon didst smooth these tidings o'er — 
Nay; speak the truth, whatever it be. 

Though it rend raj'^ bosom's core. 

"How fell he? with his face to the foe, 

Uplrolding the tiag he bore? 
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 

The uniform that he wore!"' 

"I cannot tell."' said the aged man, 
"Aud should have remai'ked before, 

That I was with Grant — in Illinois — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 

But beat with his fist full sore 
The aged man who had worked for Grant, 

Some three years befoi'e the war. 

Bret Harte. 



-^=*-e!S5^ 



-^ 



OUT, JOHN. 

, John! out, John! what are you about. Say you've not the least idea when I shall come again, 

John? John. 

f° If you don't say "Out." at once, you make the Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to 

i fellow doubt. John ! call. John; 

Say I'm out, whoever calls; and hide my hat Say I'm com-ting Miss Eupee, and mean to pay them 

and cane John : all, John. 



WIT AJSTD HIBIOK. 



(309 



Eun, John ! ruu, John ! there 's another dun, John ; 
11 it's Prodger, hid him call to-morrow week at one, 

John ; 
K he says he saw me at the window, as he knocked, 

John, 
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you 

are shocked, John; 
Take your pocket-handkerchief, and put it to your 

eye, John; 
Say your master's not the man to bid you tell a lie, 

John. 



Say — you think I'm only gone to pay his little bill, 

John ; 
Then, I think, you'd better add — that if I miss to-day, 

John, 
You 're sure I mean to call when next I pass that 

way, John. 



Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John — 
If there is not Grimshaw at the corner, let me die, 

John, 
He will hear of no excuse— I'm sure he '11 search the 
house, John, 
Oh I John, go, John ! there 's Noodle's knock, I know. Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, 

John ; John ; 

TeU him that all yesterday you sought him high and Beg he '11 take a chair and wait —I know he won't 

low, John, refuse, John — 

Tell him, just before he came, you saw me mount the And I '11 pop through the little door that opens on 
hill, John; the mews, John. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



-s^s^ 



THE LOST HEIR. 



IjijilSrE day, as I was going by 
ISP That part of Holboru christened High, 
I heard a loud and sudden cry 
That chilled my very blood 
And lo ! from out a dirt}^ alley, 
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, 
I saw a crazy woman sally. 
Bedaubed with grease and mud. 
She turned her east, she turned her west. 
Staring like Pythoness possest. 
With streaming hair and heaving breast, 

As one stark mad with grief. 
This way and that she wildly ran. 
Jostling with woman and with man, — 
Her right hand held a frying-pan, 

The left a lump of beef. 
At last her frenzy seemed to reach 
A point just capable of speech. 
And with a tone almost a screech. 

As wild as ocean birds. 
Or female ranter moved to preach. 
She gave her •' soitow words." 

*' O T.ord ! dear, my heart will break, I shall go 

stick stark staring wild ! 
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a 

crying lost-looking child? 
Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, 

if I onlj^ knew which way — 
A child as is lost about London streets, and especially 

Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hajr. 
I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you 

wretch, you little Kitty M'N'ab! 
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know 

you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. 
3S 



The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with 

my own blessed motherly eyes. 
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at 

making little dirt pies. 
I wonder he left the court, where he was better off 

than all the other young boys, 
With two bricks an old shoe, nine oyster-sheUs, and 

a dead kitten by way of toys. 
When his father comes home, and he always comes 

home as sure as ever the clock strikes one. 
He '11 be rampant, he will, at his child being lost ; and 

the beef and the inguns not done ! 
La bless you, good folks, mind j'our own concerns. 

and don't be making a mob in the street; 
O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my 

poor little boy, have you, in your beat? 
Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me 

like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; 
Saints forbid ! but he 's p'r'aps been inviggled away 

up a court, for the sake of his clothes by the 

priggs: 
He 'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it 

myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; 
And his trousers considering not very much patched, 

and red plush, they was once his father's best 

pair. 
His shirt, it 's very lucky I 'd got washing in the tub, 

or that might have gone with the rest; 
But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only two 

slits and a burn on the breast. 
He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed 

in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim, 
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and 

not a fit, and you '11 know by that if it 's him. 



610 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



Except being so well dressed, mj' miud would mis- 
give, some old beggar woman in want of an 

orphan 
Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, but I'd 

rather see him laid out in his eoflin I 
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys ! I '11 

break every bone of "em I come near, 
Go home — you 're spilling the porter — go home — 

Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. 
This day is the sorrowfuUest day of mj^ life, ever since 

my name was Betty Morgan, 
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all 

along of following a monkej' and an organ : 
O my Billy — my head will turn right round — if he's 

got kiddynapped with them Italians, 
They '11 make him a plaster parish image boy, they 

will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. 
Billy — w'here are you, Billy? — I 'm as hoarse as a 

crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow ! 
And sha' n't have half a voice, no more I sha' n't, for 

crying fresh herrings to-morrow. 

Billy, you 're bursting my heart in t^vo, and my life 

won't be of no more vally. 
If I 'm to see other folks' darlins, and none of mine, 

playing like angels in our alley. 
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks 

at the old three-legged chair 
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there 

a'n't no Billy there ! 

1 would run all the wide world over to find him, if I 

only kuowed where to run, 
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a 

mouth through stealing a pennj- bun, — 
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it 

would kill me rally. 
To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at 

the Old Bailey. 
For though I say it as ought n't, yet I will say, you 

may search for miles and mileses 
And not And one better brought up, and more pretty 

behaved, from one end to t" tother of St. Giles's. 
And if I called him a beaut}', it "s no lie, but only as 

a mother ought to speak ; 
You never set eyes on a moi'e handsome face, only it 

has n't been washed for a week; 
As for hair, though it 's red, it 's the most nicest hau- 

when I "ve time to just show it the comb ; 
I '11 owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as 

will only bring him safe and sound home. 

l3--SG 



He "s blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though 

a little cast he "s ceitainly got; 
And his nose is still a good un, though the bridge is 

broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; 
He 's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, 

and verj' large teeth for his age ; 
And quite as lit as Mrs. Murdockson"s child to play 

Cupid on the Drury Lane stage. 
And then he has got such dear winning ways — but O 

I never, never shall see him no more! 

dear! to think of losing him Just after nussing him 

back from death's door! 
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 

'em, was at tsventj^ a penny! 
And the three pence he 'd got bj^ grottoing was spent 

in plums, and sixty for a child is too manj'. 
^And the cholera man came and whitewashed us all, 

and, drat him, made a seize of our hog. 
It 's no use to send the crier to cry him about, he "s 

such a bluuderiu' drunken old dog; 
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he 

was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, 
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a dis- 
tracted mother and father about to\\n. 
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billj', come 

home, to your best of mothers! 

1 'm scared when I think of them cabroleys, they 

drive so, they 'd run over their own sisters and 

brothei-s. 
Or may be he 's stole bj' some chimbly sweeping 

wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what 

not. 
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, 

when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly 's 

red-hot. 

I 'd give the whole wide Avorld, if the world was 

mine, to clap my two longiu' eyes on his face. 
For he 's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon 
come back, you '11 see me drop stone dead on 
the place. 

1 only wish I "d got him safe in these two motherly 

arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him! 
Lauk ! I never knew what a precious he was — but a 

child don't feel like a child till you miss him. 
Why, there he is ! Punch and Jud.y hunting, the young 

wretch, it "s that Billy as sartin as sin! 
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, 

and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in 

his skin! 

Thomas Hood. 



DR. HILL'S FARCE. 



gyapOR physic and farces, 
g«^ His equal there scarce is ; 

His farces are phj'sic. 

His i^hysic a farce is. 

David Garrick. 



WIT AND HUMOE. 



611 




MR PICKAVICK IIST A DILEMMA. 

R. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a limited 
scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but 
peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and obser- 
vation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bed-room was 
the second floor front ; and thus, whether he was sitting at his desk 
in the parlor, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, 
he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the 
numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular 
thoroughfare. 

His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the rehct and sole executrix of a 
deceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of bustling manners 
and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and 
long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. 
The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the first a 
lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell' s. The large man was always at home 
at precisely ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into 
the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor; and the infantile sports 
and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring 
pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in 
it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the estab- 
lishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his 
appearance and behavior, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon 
for the journey to Eatansville, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. 
He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window 
at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhib- 
ited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident 
that something of great importance was in contemplation; but what that something was, 
not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the 
termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. 
"Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, it's a good long way to the 
Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so 
it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," 
said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two 
people, than to keep one?" "La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell coloring up to 
the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial 
twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, 
but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching 
the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table; "that 
depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a 



612 THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 

savino- and careful person, sir."" " That"s very true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the 
person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell), I think possesses 
these qualities; and has moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great 
deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell; which may be of material use to me." 

" La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border again. 
" I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing emphatic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject 
which interested him. " I do indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have 
made up my mind." "Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell " You'll think it not 
very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his 
companion, "that I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned it, till 
I sent your little boy out this morning — eh?" 

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshiped Mr. Pickwick 
at a distance, but here she Avas, all at once raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and 
most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to pro- 
pose — a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the 
way — how thoughtful — how considerate? — "Well," said Mr. Pickwick, "what do you 
think?" "Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, "you're 
very kind, sir." " It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't it?" said Mr. Pickwick. 
"Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of 
course, I should take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of 
you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much considei'ation for my loneliness." 

" Ah, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. When I am in 
toAvn, 3^ou'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." " I'm' 
sure I ought to be a very hajopy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little boy" — 
said Mr. Pickwick. "Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. 
"He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, "a lively one, who'll teach 
him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn in a year." And 
Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

" Oh you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh you kind, good 
playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and 
flung her arms around Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of 
sobs. "Bless my soul," cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; — "Mrs. Bardell, my good 
woman — dear me, what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody 
should come — " " Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically: "I'll never 
leave you — dear, kind, good, soul;" and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. 

"Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, "I hear sombody 
coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and 
remonstrance were alike unavailing: for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in ]Mr Pickwick's 
arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered 
the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was 
struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing 
vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recog- 
nition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his 
turn, stared at everybody. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



613 



Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative 
situation until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for 
a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the jiart of her youthful 
son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable 
size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the impres- 
sion that his mother must have suffered some personal damage, pervaded his partially 
developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling 
and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, commenced 
assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches 
as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. 

"Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, "he's mad." 
"What is the matter?" said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians. "I don't know," 
replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. "Take away the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the 
interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now 
help me to lead this woman down stairs." " Oh, I'm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, 
faintly. "Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tupman. "Thank 
you, sir — thank you;" exclaimed Mrs. BardeU, hysterically. And down stairs she was 
led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. 

"I cannot conceive" — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — "I cannot 
conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her 
my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm 
in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing." "Very," said his three friends. 
"Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. Pickwick. 
" Very;" was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously 
at each other. 

This behavior was not lost upon Mr Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. 
They evidently suspected him. — " There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tup- 
man. " It's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick, "I sent for him 
to the Borough, this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." 

Charles Dickens. 



OLD GRIMES. 



KKLiD Grimes is dead ; that good old man 
iSM We ne'er shall see him more ; 
, He used to wear a long, black coat, 
All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true ; 
His hair was some inclined to gray. 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned ; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivorv was turned. 



Kind words he ever had for all, 

He knew no base design ; 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind. 

In friendship he was true; 
His coat had pocket-holes behind. 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 

He passed securely o'er, 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 



614 



THE GOLDEN TREASUHY. 



But g-ood old Grimes is now at vest, 
Xor fears misfortune's frown; 

He wore a double-breasted vest — 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find. 

And paj'' it its desert ; 
He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse, 

Was sociable and gay ; 
He wore large buckles on his shoes. 

And changed them every dav. 



His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view. 
Nor make a noise towu-ineetiug days, 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 

In trust to fortune's chance, 
But lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy cii'cumstance. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares 

His peaceful moments ran ; 
And eveiybody said he was 

A tine old gentleman. 

Albert Gorton Greene. 



-5sg-^=i- 



THE LOVERS. 



Tf^ALLY SALTEE, she was a young teacher who 
taught, 
And her friend, Charley Church, was a preacher 

who praught, 
Though his enemies called him a screecher who 
scraught. 

His heart, when he saw her, kept sinking and sunk. 
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk; 
While she, in her turn, kept thinking and thunk. 

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, 
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, 
And what he was longing to do then he doed. 

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, 

To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke ; 

So he managed to let the tnith leak, and it loke. 

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode ; 
They so sweetly did glide that they both thought they 

glode. 
And thej' came to the place to be tied, and were toed. 

Then homeward, he said, let us drive, and they drove, 
And as soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove. 
For whatever he could n't contrive, she controve. 



The kiss he was djing to steal, then he stole ; 

At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole; 

And he said, " I feel better than everl fole." 

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung, 
AVTiile Time his swift cii-cuit was winging and wuug; 
And this was the thing he was bringing and bruug : 

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught ; 
That she wanted from others to snatch, and had 

snaught; 
Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she 

scraught. 

And Charle}''s warm love began freezing, and froze. 

AVhile he took to teazing, and cruelly toze 

The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze. 

"Wretch! " he cried, when she threatened to leave 

him, and left. 
"How could yoii deceive me. as you have deceft? " 
And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've 

cleft." 

Phoebe Cary. 



-^sg>-g^^ 



IS IT ANYBODY'S BUSINESS ? 



^S it anybody's business, 
iis If a gentleman should choose 
T To wait upon a lady. 
I If the lady don't refuse? 
Or, to speak a little plainer. 

That the meaning all may know. 
Is it anybody's business 
If a lady has a beau ? 



Is it anybody's business 

A^^len that gentleman doth call, 
Or when he leaves the lady. 

Or if he leaves at all"? 
Or is it necessarj' 

That the curtain should be drawn, 
To save from further ti'ouble 

The outside lookers-on? 



WIT AND HUMOR. 



615 



Is it anybody's business, 

But the lady's, if her beau 
Rides out with other ladies. 

And doesn't let her know? 
Is it anybody's business, 

But the gentleman's, if she 
Should accept another escort. 

Where he doesn't chance to be? 

If a person's on the sidewalk, 
Whether great or whether small. 

Is it anybody's business 
Where that person means to call? 



Or if you see a person 

While he 's calling anywhere. 
Is it any of your business 

What his business may be there? 

The substance of our query, 

Simplj' stated, would be this : 
Is it any body's business 

What another's business is? 
Whether 'tis or whether 'tis n't 

We should really like to know, 
For we are certain, if it is n't. 

There ai-e some who make it so. 



THE LOW-BACKED CAR. 




^il^HEN" first I saw sweet Peggy 
'T was on a market day : 
A low-backed car she drove and sat 

Upon a truss of hay ; 
But when that hay was blooming grass. 

And decked with flowers of spring, 
No flower was there that could compare 
With the blooming girl I sing. 
As she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the tnrnpilze bar 
Never asked for the toll. 
But just rubbed his owld poll. 
And looked after the low-backed car. 

In battle's wild commotion. 

The proud and mighty Mars 
AVith hostile scythes demands his tithes 

Of death in warlike cars; 
While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 

Has darts in her bright eye. 
That knock men down in the market town, 

As right and left they fly ; 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
Than battle more dangerous far, — 
For the doctor's art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from the low-backed car. 



Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 

Has strings of ducks and geese, 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits. 

Just like a turtle-dove, 
Well worth the cage, I do engage. 

Of the blooming god of Love I 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
The lovers come near and far. 
And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin'. 
As she sits in her low-backed car. 

O, I 'd rather own that car, sir. 

With Peggy by my side. 
Than a coach and four, and gold galore. 

And a lady for my bride ; 
For the lady would sit forninst me. 

On a cushion made with taste. 
While Peggy would sit beside me. 

With my arm about her waist 
While we drove in the low-backed car. 
To be married by Father Mahar ; 
O, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh, — 
Though it beat in a low-backed car ! 

Samuel Lover. 



^(jy^ZiS^VS^ 



OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 



LD Master Brown brought his ferule down, 
And his face looked angry and red. 
(;lli^ "Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, 
Along with the girls," he said. 
Then, Anthony Blair, with a mortified air. 
With his head down on his breast, 



Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet 

That he loved, of all, the best. 
And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering there. 

But the rogue only made believe ; 
For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, 

And ogled them over his sleeve. 



616 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUBY. 



CAPTAIN REECE. 



[In this delicious piece of absurditj' will be found the germs 
amiable captain, cheerful crew, and the "sisters and the cousins 



of Gilbert's two famous comic operas, — "H. M. S. Pinafore," with its 
and the aunts," and "The Pirates of Penzance, or The Slave of Dutj'."] 



|F all the ships upon the blue. 
Xo ship contained a better crew 
Than that of worthy Captain Eeece, 
Commanding of The Mantelpiece. 

He was adored b.y all his men. 
For worthy Captain Eeece, E. N., 
Did all that lay within him to 
Promote the comfort of his ci-ew. 

If ever they were dull or sad. 
Their captain danced to them like mad, 
Or told, to make the time pass by, 
Droll legends of his infancy. 

A feather-bed had every man. 
"Warm slippers and hot ^vater can. 
Brown Windsor from the captain's store, 
A valet, too, to every four. 

Did they with thirst In summer bm-n, 
Lo, seltzogenes at everj' turn. 
And on all very sultry days , 
Cream ices handed round on trays. 

Then currant wine and ginger pops 
Stood handily on all the ''tops:" 
And also with amusement rife, 
A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." 

Kew volumes came across the sea 
From Mister Mudie's libraree ; 
The Times and Saturday Eeview 
Beguiled the leisure of the crew. 

Kind-hearted Captain Eeece, E. N., 
Was quite devoted to his men ; 
In point of fact, good Captain Eeece 
Beatified The Mantelpiece. 

One summer eve, at half -past ten. 
He said (addressing all his men). 
'•Come, tell me, please, what I can do. 
To please and gratifj' my crew. 

'•By any reasonable plan 
I '11 make you happy if I can ; 
My own convenience count as nil ; 
It is my dutj', and I will." 

Then up and answered William Lee 
(The kindly captain's coxswain he, 
A nervous shy. low-spoken man) : 
He cleai^ed his throat, and thus began : 

'•You have a daughter. Captain Eeece. 
Ten female cousins and a niece. 



A ma, if what I 'm told is ti'ue. 
Six sisters, and an aunt or two. 

"Xow, somehow, sir, it seems to me, 
More friendly-like we all should be. 
If you united of 'em to 
L'nmarried members of the crew. 

"If you 'd ameliorate oui- life. 
Let each select from them a wife ; 
And as for nervous me, old pal. 
Give me your own enchanting gal!" 

Good Captain Eeece, that worthy man. 
Debated on his coxswain's plan : 
"I quite agree," he said, "0 Bill; 
It is my dutj% and I will. 

"Mj- daughter, that enchanting gui^l, 
Has just been promised to an earl. 
And all my other familee 
To peers of various degree. 

"But what are dukes and viscounts to 
The haiDpiness of all my crew? 
The word I gave j'ou I "11 fulfill • 
It is my dutj', and I will. 

"As you desire it shall befall, 
I '11 settle thousands on j'ou all. 
And I shall be, despite mj' hoard, 
The only bachelor on board. 

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, 
He blushed and spoke to Captain Eeece: 
"I beg your honor's leave," he said, 
"If you would wish to go and ^^■ed, 

"I have a widowed mother who 
Would be the verj- thing for you — 
She long has loved you from afar. 
She washes for you. Captain E." 

The captain saw the dame that day — 
Addressed her in his playful way — 
"And did it want a wedding-ring? 
It was a tempting ickle sing! 

"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, 
We '11 all be married this day week 
At yonder church upon the hill; 
It is my dutj-. and I will !" 

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece. 
And widowed ma of Captain Eeece, 
Attended there as tliey were bid ; 
It was their dutj% and thej' did. 

William S. Gilbert. 



WIT AND HUMOK. 



(J17 



THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." 



WAS on the shores that round our coast 
From Deal to Eamsgate span, 
^f?^ That I found alone, on a piece of stone, 
"I An elderly naval man. 

His hair was weedy, his heard was long, 

And weedy and long was he. 
And I heard this wight on the shore recite, 
In a singular minor key :- 

" Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold. 

And the mate of the Nancy brig, 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 

And the crew of the captain's gig." 

And he shook his lists and he tore his hair, 

Till I really felt afraid ; 
For I could u"t heli) thinking the man had been 
drinking, 

And so I simply said : — 

" O elderly man, ifs little I know 

Of the duties of men of the sea. 
And I'll eat my hand if I understand 

How you cau possibly be 

" At once a cook, and a captain bold, 

And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig." 

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which 

Is a trick all seamen larn. 
And having got rid of a thumping quid, 

He spun this painful yarn : — 

" 'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell 

That we sailed to the Indian Sea, 
And there on a reef we came to grief, 

Which has often occurred to me. 

" And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned 
(There was seventy-seven o' soul) , 

And only ten of the Nancy's men 
Said 'Here! ' to the muster-roll. 

''There was me and the cook and the captain bold, 

And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite. 

And the ci-ew of the captain's gig. 

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink. 

Till a-hungry we did feel, 
So, we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot, 

ITie captain for the meal. 

" The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate. 

And a delicate dish he made ; 
Then our appetite with the midshipmite 

We seven survivors stayed. 



" And then we murdered the bo'sun tight. 

And he much resembled pig; 
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me. 

On the crew of the captain's gig. 

" Then only the cook and me was left. 

And the delicate question ' Which 
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose. 

And we argued it out as sich. 

" For I loved that cook as a brother, I did. 

And the cook he worshiped me ; 
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed 

In the other chap's hold, you see. 

'• 'I '11 be eat if you dines off rae,' says Tom, 

' Yes, that,' says I, ' you '11 be ' ; 
' I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, 

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. 

" Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me 

Were a foolish thing to do. 
For don't you see that you can't cook me 

While I can — and will — cook you ! ' 

" So, he boils the water, and takes the salt 

And the pepper in portions true 
(Which he never forgot), and^ some chopped 
shalot. 

And some sage and parsley too. 

" ' Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, 

Which his smiling features tell, 
' 'T will soothing be if I let you see 

How extremely nice you '11 smell! 

" And he stirred it round and round, and round. 
And he sniffed at the foaming froth ; 

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his 
squeals 
In the scum of the boiling broth. 

" And I eat that cook ia a week or less, 

And — as I eating be 
The last of his chops, why I almost drops. 

For a wessel in sight I see. 

" And I never larf, and I never smile, 

And I never lark nor play, 
But I sit and croak, and a single joke 

I have — which is to say: — 

" Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold. 

And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midsbiiimite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig! " 

William S. Gilbert. 



618 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



LEEDLE TAWCOB STRAUSS. 



HAF von funny leedle poy 

Vot gomes shust to uiy knee. — 

Der queerest schap, der ereatest rogue 

As efer you dit see. 

He runs, und »chunips, und smashes dings 

In all barts off der house ; 

But vot off dat? He vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He get der measles und der mumbs, 

Und eferydiug dot's oudt: 

He sbills mine glass off lager bier. 

Foots snuff indo mine kraut; 

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese — 

Dot vas der roughest chouse ; 

I'd dake dot vrom no oder poj' 

But Leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
Und cuts mine cane in dwo 
To make der sticks to beat it mit — 
Mine cracious, dot vas drue ! 



I dinks mine bed vas schplit abart. 
He kicks oup sooeh a touse; 
But nefer mind, der poys vas few 
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese . 

"Who baints mine nose so red? 

"Who vos it cuts der schmoodth blace oudt 

Vroni der hair ubon mine hed? 

L"nd \-\vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 

Yeue'er der glim I douse? 

How gau I all dese dings eggsblain 

'i dot schmall Yawcob Sti-auss? 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 

Mit sooch a grazj- poy, 

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest 

Und beaceful dimes enshoy. 

But ven he vas ashleep in ped, 

So quiet as a mouse, 

I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings. 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." , 

CiiAKLEs F. Adams. 



SAINT PATRICK. 



jUAINT PATRICK was a gentleman, 

Who came of decent people; 
He built a church in Dublin town, 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a Gallagher; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy, 

His uncle an O'Grady. 
So, success attend Saint Patrick's fist, 

For he 's a saint so clever; 
Oh I he gave the snakes and toads a twist, 

And bothered them forever! 

The Wicklow hills are verj' high. 

And so "s the hill of Howth, sir; 
But there 's a hill, much bigger still. 

Much higher nor them both, sii-: 
'T was on the top of this high hill 

Saint Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs, 

And banished all the varmint. 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

"WTiere dirty varmin musters. 
But where he put his dear forefoot 

And murdered them m clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop, 

Slap-dash into the ^^■ater; 
And the snakes committed suicide. 

To save themselves from slaughter- 



Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses, 
And dined on them at Killaloe 

In soups and second courses. 
"\Miere blind-worms craw".ing in the grass 

Disgusted all the nation, 
He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gaj- and frisky. 
For sure Saint Pat he taught them that. 

As well as making whiskej'; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling. 
Since his mother kept a sheeben-shop 

In the town of Enniskillen. 

O, was I but so fortunate 

As to be back in Munster, 
'T is I 'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 
For there Saint Patrick planted turf. 

And plenty of the praties. 
With pigs galore, ma gra. ma 'store. 

And cabbages — and ladies. 
So. success attend Saint Patrick's fist. 

For he "s a saint so clever; 
O. he gave the snakes and toads a twist 

And bothered them forever! 

Henry Bennett. 



WIT AND HUMOK. 



619 



TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS. 



EEALLY take it very kind, 

This visit, Mrs. Skinuer; 
I have not seen you such an age, 

(The wretch has come to dinnerl) 
Your daughters, too, what loves of girls! 

What heads for painters' easels I 
Come here, and kiss the infant, dears! 

(And give it, p'raps, the measles!) 

Your charming boys, I see, are home. 

From Reverend Mr. Russell's ; 
'Twas very kind to hring them both, 

(VV^hat boots for my new Brussels?) 
What! little Clara left at home? 

Well now, I call that shabby! 
I should have loved to kiss her so! 

(ii Habby, dabby babby !) 



.S-^c--^ 



And Mr. S., I hope he 's well; 

But, though he lives so handy, 
He never once drops in to sup, 

(The better for our brandj^!) 
Come, take a seat; I long to hear 

About Matilda's marriage ; 
You "ve come, of course, to spend the day, 

(Thank heaven! I hear the carriage !) 

What! must you go? Next time, I hope. 

Yon '11 give me longer measure ; 
Nay, I shall see you down the stairs ; 

(With most uncommon pleasure!) 
Goodbye! goodbye! Remember, all, 

Next time you '11 take your dinners; 
(Now, David, mind I 'm not at home, 

In future, to the Skinners.) 

Thomas Hood. 



MES. PARTII^fGTOK 



^ DO not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the Lords to stop the progi-ess 
^M of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of the 
^L conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington on that occasion. In the winter of 
* 1824 there set in a great flood upon that town — the tide rose to an incredible 
height — the waves rushed in upon the houses — and everything was threatened with 
destruction. In the midst of this sublime storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the 
beach, was seen at the door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, 
and squeezing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The 
Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Partington's spirit was up ; but I need not tell you that 
the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excel- 
lent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest. 

Sydney Smith. 



NO! 




No 



No 



sun — no moon! 

No morn — no noon — 
No dawn — no dust — no proper time of day - 

No sk}'' — no earthly view — 

No distance looking blue — 
road — no street — no " t' other side the waj'""- 

No end to any Row — 

No indications where the Crescents go — 

No top to any steeple — 
recognitions of familiar people — 

No courtesies for showing 'em — 

No knowing 'em! 



No traveling at all — no locomotion. 
No inkling of the way — no notion — 

" No go " — by land or ocean — 
No mail — no post — 
No news from anj'^ foreign coast — 
No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 

No companj^ — no nobility — 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. 
No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
November ! 

Thomas Hood. 



620 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD. 



CANNOT eat but little meat. 

My stomach is oot good ; 
But sure I think that I cau driuk 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare take ye no care, 

I nothing am a-cold; 
I stuff my skin so full within 
Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, go bare; 
Both foot and hand go cold; 
But belly. God send thee good ale enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the Are; 
A little bread shall do me stead, 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, nor wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold, 
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt, 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 



And Tyb. mj' wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek ; 
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 

The tears run down her cheek. 
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 

Even as a malt-worm shold; 
And saith. Sweetheart, I take my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink. 

Even as good fellows should do ; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives. 
Whether they be young or old. 
Back and side go bare, go bare ; 
Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But belly, God send thee good ale enough. 
Whether it be new or old. 

John Still. 



-l3-^G 



A BABT^S SOLILOQUY. 

jI AJM hex'e. And if this is what they call the world, I don't think much of it. It's 
a flannelly Vvorld, and smells of paregoric awfully. It's a dreadful light world, too; 
^ffT and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don't know what to do with my hands: 
^ I think I'll dig my fists in my eyes. No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner 
of my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll holler; whatever happens I'll holler. And 
the more paregoric they give me the louder I'll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon 
in the corner of my mouth, sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all the 
while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and, when I hollered, she trotted me. That 
conies of being a two-days-old baby. Never mind; when I'm a man I'll pay her back 
good. There's a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it, I'll be trotted 
or fed; and I would rather have catnip tea. I'll tell you who I am. I found out 
to-day. I heard folks say, " Hush I don't wake up Emeline's baby," and I suppose 
that pretty, white-faced woman over on the pillow is Enieline. No, I was mistaken; for 
a chap was in here just now, and wanted to see Bob's baby; and looked at me and said 
I was a funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I wonder 
who else I belong to? Yes, there's another one — that's Gamma. " It was Gamma's 
baby, so it was." I declare, I do not know who I belong to; but I'll holler, and maybe 



I'll find out. There comes Snuffy with catnip tea. 
my hands won't go where I want them to ! 



I'm going to sleep. I wonder why 



WIT AJSTD HUMOE. 



621 



A VEGETABLE CONVENTION. 



PUNCE where our city farmers sat, 

And listened to a long debate, 
In their own club-room, this and that 

Discussion kept them up so late. 
They left their samples in the hall, 

In heaps upon the dusty tloor. 
In packages against the wall. 

In bundles down behind the door. 

The vegetables, still till then. 

Began to feel the pulsing flow. 
That beats like blood in veins of men, 

When feeling kindles thought aglow. 
Then the full-orbed onion's sighs 

Made a sensation in the heat, 
It brought tears to potatoes' eyes 

And color to the crimson beet. 

First a potato rubbed its et/es, 

It must have been an "early rose," 
For it was first of all to me, 

And said : '• Permit me to propose 
A friendly meeting now and here ; 

We can be social until morn." 
A stalk of maize then bowed its ear. 

But spoke not, for 'twas full of corn. 

"I second that," a parsnip said. 

The timid thing turned deadly pale. 
A jealous carrot, round and red, 

Objected, for his friend so frail. 
Though classical, could not endure 

An argument that reached the root; 
And should they quarrel, he was sure. 

They had things all prepared to shoot. 

But he was overruled, and they 
Put the potato in the chair. 

And then debated until day 
Dawned in its glory on them there. 



A ripe tomato, bright and red. 
Wondered what city farmers knew 

Of country crops, that nature fed 
With sunshine, and with rain and dew. 

They only plow with wheels the street, 

And greenbacks are the only greens 
That grow where corporations meet 

In rings to raise the ways and means. 
Oh ! how the last remark did please 

Some noisy beans who made uproar, 
While in wild ecstasy the peas 

In raptures rolled upon the floor. 

" This is no place for mirth — instead 

Of jollity, we should be wise," 
Cried out in wrath a cabbage-head; 

And the potato loinked his eyes. 
" That is a truthful word indeed. 

We must be sober and sedate," 
Exclaimed a turnip run to seed, 

"Have dignity or stop debate." 

A squash now thought that she should speak. 

And soften with her language soft. 
The quarrel, but her accents weak 

Were lost in crashes from aloft. 
A box of grapes came tumbling down. 

From shelves no hand was there to touch. 
With noise enough to wake the town. 

Because they had a drop too much. 

The grapes rolled out in merry glee. 

And reeled in fun across the floor. 
The crashing box awakened me. 

Just as the last man left the door. 
I wished to hear the speeches through. 

Hear something about ^'plowing deep." — 
A work that speakers seldom do. 

When their dull words put us to sleep. 

George W. Bungay. 



-2^S^^ 



y IIY flyest thou away with fear? 
Ml Trust me, there's naught of danger near 
I have no wicked hooke, 
!j All covered with a snaring bait, 
Alas ! to tempt thee to thy fate. 



harmless tenant of the flood! 

1 do not wish to spill thy blood. 

For Nature unto thee 



TO A FISH. 



Perchance has given a tender wife. 
And children dear, to charm thy life. 
As she hath done for me. 

Enjoy thy stream, harmless fish; 
And when an angler for his dish. 

Through gluttonj^'s vile sin, 
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
God give thee strength, O gentle trout, 

To pull the rascal in! 

John Wolcott (Peter Pindar). 



622 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 





A ]^IGHT or TEEEOR. 

WAS one daj^ traveling in Calabria; a country of people who, I 
believe, have no great liking to anybod}', and are particularly ill- 
disposed towards the French. To tell you why would be a long affair. 
It is enough that they hate us to death, and that the unhappy being 
who should chance to fall into their hands would not pass his time in 
the most agreeable manner. I had for m}^ companion a worth}' young 
fellow ; I do not say this to interest you, but because it is the truth. 
In these mountains the roads are precipices, and our horses advanced 
with the greatest difficulty. My comrade going first, a track which 
appeared to him more practicable and shorter than the regular path, 
led us astray. It was my fault. Ought I to have trusted to a head 
of twenty years? We sought our waj' out of the wood while it was 
yet lio-ht ; but the more we looked for the path the further we were 
off it. 

It was a very black night, when we came close upon a very black house. We went 
in, and not without suspicion. But what was to be done? There we found a whole 
family of charcoal-burners at table. At the fii'st word they invited us to join them. 
My young man did not stop for much ceremony. In a minute or two we were eating 
and drinking in right earnest — he at least ; for my own part I could not help glancing 
about at the place and the people. Our hosts, indeed, looked like charcoal-burners ; 
but the house ! you would have taken it for an arsenal. There was nothing to be seen 
but muskets, pistols, sabres, knives, cutlasses. Everj^thing displeased me, and I saw that 
I was in no favor myself. My comrade, on the contrary, was soon one of the family. 
He laughed, he chatted with them ; and, with an imprudence which I ought to have 
prevented, he at once said where we came from, where we were going, and that we were 
Frenchmen. Think of our situation. Here we were among our mortal enemies — alone, 
benighted, and far from all human aid. That nothing might be omitted that could tend 
to our destruction, he must, forsooth, play the rich man, promising these folks to pay 
them well for their hospitahty ; and then he must prate about his portmanteau, earnestly 
beseeching them to take care of it, and put it at the head of his bed, for he wanted no 
other pillow. Ah, youth, youth I how art thou to be pitied I Cousin, they might have 
thought that we carried the diamonds of the crown ; and yet the treasure in his port- 
manteau, which gave him so much anxiety, consisted only of some private letters. 

Supper ended, they left us. Our hosts slept below ; we on the story where we had 
been eating. In a sort of platform raised seven or eight feet, where we were to mount 
by a ladder, was the bed that awaited us — a nest into which we had to introduce ourselves 
by jumping over barrels filled with provisions for all the year. My comrade seized upon 
the bed above, and was soon fast asleep, with his head upon the precious portmanteau. 
I was determined to keep awake, so I made a good fire, and sat myself down. The 
night was almost passed over tranquilly enough, and I was beginning to be comfortable, 
when just at the time it ajipeared to me that da}^ was about to break, I heard our host 



WIT AXD HUMOR. 



(J23 



and his wife talking and disputing below me; and putting my ear into the chimney, 
which communicated with the lower room, I perfectly distinguished these exact words of 
the husband: "Well, well, let us see — must we kill them hothV To which the wife 
wife replied, "Yes!" and I heard no more. 

How should I tell you the rest? I could scarcely breathe; my whole body was as 
cold as marble; had you seen me you could not have told whether I was dead or alive. 
Even now, the thought of my condition is enough. We two were almost without arms; 
ao-ainst us were twelve or fifteen persons who had plenty of weapons. And then my 
comrade was overwhelmed with sleep. To call him up, to make a noise, was more 
than I dared; to escape alone was an impossibility. The window was not ver}^ high; 
but under it were two great dogs howling like wolves. Imagine, if you can, the distress 
I was in. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed to be an age, I heard some 
one on the staircase, and through the chink of the door, I saw the old man, with a lamp 
in one hand, and one of his great knives in the other. 

The crisis was now come. He mounted — his wife followed him ; I was behind the 
door. He opened it; but before he entered he put down the lamp, which his wife took 
up, and coming in, with his feet naked, she being behind him, said in a smothered voice, 
hiding the light partially with her fingers — " Gently, go gently." On reaching the ladder 
he mounted, with his knife between his teeth, and going to the head of the bed where 
that poor young man lay with his throat uncovered, with one hand he took the knife, 
and with the other — ah, my cousin ! — he seized — a ham which hung from the roof, — cut 
a slice, and retired as he had come in ! 

When the day appeared, all the family, with a great noise, came to arouse us as we 
had desired. They brought us plenty to eat; they served us up, I assure you, a capital 
breakfast. Two chickens formed a part of it, the hostess saying, "You must eat one, 
and carry away the other." When I saw them, I at once comprehended the meaning of 
those terrible words ; ' ' Must we kill them both f ' 

Paul Louis Courier. 



— «-'VJ/^^:^'2/Z/l,^.b — '- 



THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. 




night came on a hurricane, 

The sea was mountains rolling, 
When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 

And said to Billy Bowling : 
" A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill; 
Hark! don't ye hear it roar now; 
Lord help 'em, how I pities all 
Unhappy folks on shore now! 

" Foolhardy chaps who live in town, 

What danger they are all in. 
And now are quaking in their beds 

For fear the roof should fall in ; 
Poor creatures, how they envies us, 

And wishes, I 've a notion, 
For our good luck, in such a storm. 

To be upon the ocean. 



" But as for them who 're out all day. 

On business from their houses. 
And late at night are coming home, 

To cheer the babes and spouses ; 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck, 

Are comfortably lying, 
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying! 

" And very often have we heard 

How men are killed and undone, 
By overturns of carriages. 

By thieves and fires in London. 
We know what risks all landsmen run, 

Fi'om noblemen to tailors ; 
Then Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors! " 

William 



Pitt. 



624 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



GILES SCROGG-INS AND MOLLY BROWN. 



1|eLES SCROGGINS courted MoUy Brown, 
Ei fol de riddle lol de ree, 
The fairest wench in all our town, 
Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
He bought a ring with posy true, 
" If you loves I, as I loves you, 
No knife can cut our love in two, 
Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido." 

But scissors cuts as well as knives, 

Ei fol de riddle lol de )-ee, 
And quite unsartin 's all our lives, 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
The day before they was to wed. 
Fate's scissors cut poor Giles's thread, 
So they could not be mar-ri-ed, 

Fol de rol de i-iddle lol de rido. 

Poor Molly laid her down to weep, 

Ei fol de riddle lol de ree. 
And cried herself soon fast to sleep, 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 



When standing close by the bedpost, 
A figure tall her sight engrossed, 
Says he, -'I be 's Giles Scroggius" ghost,"' 
Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 

The ghost then said all solemnly, 

Ei fol de riddle lol de ree, 
"O, Molly, you must go with I, 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
All in the grave your love to cool." 
Says she, '-Why, I'm not dead yet, you fool."' 
Says the ghost, says he, '• Vy, that's no rule. 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido." 

The ghost then seized her all so grim, 

Ei fol de riddle lol de ree. 
All for to go along with him, 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido. 
" Come along," said he, "ere morning beam." 
" I vont! '' said she, and she'screamed a scream, 
Then woke, and found it all a dream, 

Fol de rol de riddle lol de rido ! 

John Hughes. 



-^s-^^ 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 



m^ MOISTK, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er. 
In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered 
*^K floor, 

Jl Eesigning to thought his chimerical brain, 
Once formed the couti-ivance we now shall explain ; 
But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers 
We know not; indeed 'tis no business of ours. 

Perhaps it was only by patience and care. 
At last that he brought his invention to bear, 
In youth 't was projected, but years stole away, 
And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray; 
But success is secure, unless energy fails ; 
And at length he produced the Philosopher's 
Scales. 

"What were they?" you ask. You shall presently 

see; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea. 
O no; for s>ich properties wondrous had they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could 

weigh. 
Together with articles small or immense. 
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense. 

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay, 
And naught so ethereal but there itAvould stay. 
And naught so reluctant but in it must go ; 
All which some examples more clearlj^ ^^'ill sho^v. 



The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire. 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there ; 
As a weight, he threw in the torn scrap of a leaf 
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief ; 
■When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell 
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell. 

One time he put in Alexander the Great, 

With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a 

weight; 
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown, 
The hero rose up and the garment went down. 

A long row of almshouses, amply endowed 
By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud. 
Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed 
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the 

chest : 
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce. 
And down, down the farthing-worth came with a 

bounce. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one 

plough ; 
A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale. 
Though balanced by onlj' a ten-pennj' nail ; 
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear. 
Weighed less than a widow's un crystallized tear. 



WIT AISTD HUMOK. 



625 



A lord and a lady weut up at full sail, 
Wheu a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale; 
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one carl. 
Ten coimsellors' wigs, full of powder and curl. 
All heaped iu one balance and swinging from thence. 
Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense ; 
A first water diamond, with brilliants begirt, 
Thau one good potato just washed from the dirt; 
Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suttice 
One pearl to outweigih — 't was the pearl of gkeat 

PRICE. 



Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the 

grate, 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight, 
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff, 
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof ! 
When balanced in air, it ascended on high. 
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky; 
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 



Jane Taylor. 



"s}--~^?-^gr 




CUEII^G A COLD. 

HE first time that I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe 
my feet in hot water, and go to bed. I did so. Shortly after, a 
friend told me to get up and take a cold shower bath. I did that 
also. Within the hour another friend told me it was policy to feed 
a cold, and starve a fever. I had both; so I thought it best to fill 
up for the cold, and let the fever starve awhile. In a case of this 
kind, I seldom do things by halves: I ate pretty heartily. I conferred 
my custom upon a stranger who had just opened a restaurant on Cort- 
land street, near the hotel, that morning, paying him so much for a 
full meal. He waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished 
feeding my cold, when he inquired whether people about New York were 
much afliicted with colds. I told him I thought they were. He then went out and took 
in his sio-n. I started up toward the office, and on the walk encountered another bosom 
friend, who told me that a quart of warm salt-water would come as near curing a cold as 
anything in the world. I hardly thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The 
result was surprising. I believe T threw^ up my immortal soul. Now, as I give my expe- 
rience only for the benefit of those of my friends who are troubled with this distemper, 
I feel that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such 
portions of it as proved inefficient with me ; and acting upon this conviction I warn 
them against warm salt-water. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is 
rather too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course left 
me, — to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt-water — I would take my 
chances on the earthquake. After this, everybody in the hotel became interested ; I 
took all sorts of remedies, — hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper-tea, boneset, stewed 
Quaker, hoarhound syrup, onions and loaf-sugar, lemons and brown sugar, vinegar and 
laudanum, five bottles of fir balsam, eight bottles cherry pectoral, and ten bottles of 
Uncle Sam's remedy ; but all without effect. One of the prescriptions given by an 
old lady was — well, it was dreadful. She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, cat- 
nip, peppermint, aquafortis, turpentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, and instructed 
me to take a wineglassful of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one dose : that 
was enough. I had to take to my bed, and remain there for two entire days. AYhen 
I felt a little better, more things were recommended. I was desperate, and willing to 
39 



626 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 



take anything. Plain gin was recommended, and then gin and molasses, then gin and 
onions. I took all thi^ee. I detected no particular result, however, except that I had 
acquired a breath Hke a turkey-buzzard, and had to change my boarding-place. I had 
never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy to commence then ; therefore I 
determined to take a sheet-bath, though I had no idea what sort of an arrangement it 
was. It was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty. My back 
and sides were stripped; and a sheet (there appeared to be a thousand yards of it), 
soaked in ice-water was wound around me until I resembled a swab for a columbiad. 
It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh, it makes him 
start with a sudden violence, and gasp for breath, just as men do in the death-agony. 
It froze the marrow in my bones, and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought 
my time had come. When I recovered from this, a friend ordered the appHcation of 
a mustard-plaster to my breast. I believe that would have cured me effectually if it 
had not been for young Clemens. When I went to bed, I put the mustard-plaster 
where I could reach it when I should be ready for it. But young Clemens got 
hungry in the night, and ate it up. I never saw any child have such an appetite. I 
am confident that he would have eaten me if I had been healthy. 

8. C. Clemens (Mark Twain). 



"e>-5e--^ 



POPPING CORN. 



^^pNB there they sat, a-popping corn, 
gH^ Johu Styles and Susan Cutter — 

fJohn Styles as fat as anj' ox, 
And Susan fat as butter. 

And there they sat and shelled the corn, 
And raked and stirred the fire, 

And talked of different kinds of corn, 
And hitched their chairs up nigher. 

Then Susan she the popper shook, 
Then John he shook the popper, 

Till both their faces grew as red 
As saucepans made of copper. 

And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, 

AH kinds of fun a-poking, 
While he haw-hawed at her remarks. 

And she laughed at his joking. 



And still they popped, and still they ate — 
John's mouth was like a hopper — 

And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt. 
And shook and shook the popper. 

The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, 
And still the corn kept popping ; 

It struck eleven, and then sti-uck twelve, 
And still no signs of stopping. 

And John he ate. and Sue she thought — 

The corn did pop and patter — 
Till Johu cried out, '• The corn 's a-fire! 

Why, Susan, what 's the matter? " 

Said she, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock; 

You '11 die of indigestion ; 
I'm sick of all this popping corn — 

Why don't j'ou pop the question ! " 



a'tXs^ 



PLAIN LANG-UAGE FROM TRtJTHFUL JAMES. 




iHICH I wish to remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark 

And for ti'icks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar : 

AVhich the same I would rise to explain. 



Ah Sin was his name ; 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply ; 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike. 

As I frequent remarked to BiU Ifye. 



WIT AND HUjVIOE. 



627 



It was August the third. 

And quite soft was the skies, 
Which it might be iuferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise : 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand : 
It was euchre. The same 

He did not understand; 
But he smiled, as he sat hy the table. 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve. 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

Bj'' that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made, 

Were quite frightful to see — 
Till at last he put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 



Then I looked up at Nye. 

And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, '"Can this be! 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,'' — 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand; 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the sti-and 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding. 

In the game "he did not understand." 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had twenty-four packs — 
Which was coming it strong. 

Yet I state but the facts; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper, 

What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 

Which is why I remark. 

And my language is plain. 
That for ways that are dark. 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar — 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 

Bret Harte. 



THE HEIGHT OP THE RIDICULOUS. 



WKOTE some lines once on a time 

In wondrous merry mood, 
And thought, as usual, men would say 

They were exceeding good. 

They were so queer, so very queer, 

I laughed as I would die ; 
Albeit, in the genei'al way, 

A sober man am I. 

I called my servant, and he came; 

How kind it was of him. 
To mind a slender man like me. 

He of the mightj^limb! 

"These to the printer." I exclaimed, 
And, in my humorous way, 

I added (as a trifling jest), 
"There '11 be the devil to pay." 



He took the paper, and I watched, 

And saw him peep within ; 
At the first line he read, his face 

Was all upon the grin. 

He read the next ; the grin grew broad, 

And shot from ear to ear; 
He read the third ; a chuckling noise 

I now began to hear. 

The fourth; he broke into a roar; 

The fifth; his waistband split; 
The sixth ; he burst live buttons off. 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, 

I watched that wretched man. 
And since, I never dare to write 
. As funny as I can. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



TO MY NOSE. 



S:5N0WS he that never took a pinch, 
^. Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? 
'f?^ Knows he the titillating joys 
K Wbich my nose knows? 



nose, I am as proud of thee 
As any mountain of its snows; 

1 gaze on thee, and feel that pride 

A Roman knows! 
Alfred A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill). 



628 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



THE BROKEN PITCHER. 



e^^5 

^ipS beautiful Katty one moruiug was tripping, 
^^ With a pitclier of milk, from the Fair of 
/^fC Coleraine, 

_^ When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it 
"^ tumbled, 

I And all the sweet buttermilk watered the 

plain. 

"Oh, what shall I do now? — "twas looking at you 
now ; 
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I 'U ne'er meet again! 



T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! 
You "re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." 

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, 
That such a misfortune should gi^ e her such pain. 

A kiss then I gave her; and, ere I did leave her. 
She vowed for such pleasm-e she "d break it again. 

'T was hay-making season, — I can't tell the reason, — 
Misfortunes will never come single, "tis plain; 

For verj^ soon after poor Kittj^'s disaster — 
Sure, never a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 



-s-i^e.^ 



THE BACHELOR SALE. 



^ DEEAMED a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
^i And as fast as I dreamed it was coined into num- 
T bers ; 

f My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
I I 'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter. 

It seemed that a law had been recently made, 
That a tax on old bachelors' pates shoiild be laid; 
And, in order to make them all willing to marry. 
The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 

The bachelors grumbled, and said "t was no use, 

'T was cruel injustice and horrid abuse — 

And declared that to save their own hearts" blood 

from spilling. 
Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling. 

But the rulers determined their scheme to pursue. 
So they set all the batchelors ujo at vendue. 



A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow, 
And to bawl out to all he might meet on his way, 
" Ho! forty old batchelors sold here to-day." 

And presently all the old maids of the town, — 
Each one in her very best bonnet and gown, — 
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
Of every description all flocked to the sale. 

The auctioneer, then, in his labor began ; 

And called out aloud as he held up a man, 

" How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy? " 

In a twink, every maiden responded, '• I — I." 

In short, at a hugelj^ extravagant price, 

The bachelors all were sold off in a trice. 

And forty old maidens — some j^ounger, some older — 



-ir-i)®' 



SiOOD people, all of everj' sort, 
'5^ Give ear unto my song; 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



li 



And if you find it wondrous short, 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had. 

To comfort friends and foes : 
The naked every day he clad. 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 



This dog and man at tirst were friends; 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain his private ends. 

Went mad and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wondering neighbors ran. 
And swore the dog had lost his wits. 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while thej- swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 
That showed the rogues they lied : 

The man recovered of the bite ; 
The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



WIT AND HUMOK. 



629 



HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY. 



iiPANS BEEITMANN gife a barty, 
IS. Dey had biano-blayin; 
/v^ *^ I felled in h^t'e init a Mericau frau, 
Ij Her name was Madilda Yaue. 

She had haar as provvn ash a pretzel, 

Her eyes vas himniel-plue, 
Und ven dey looket iiido mine 
Dey shplit mine heart in two 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere you '11 i)e pound ; 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yaue 

Und vent shpinuen round and round. 
De pootiest Frauleiu in de House, 

She vayed dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp, 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty. 

I dells you it cost him dear; 
Dey rolled in more as sefen kecks 

Of foost-rate Lager Beer. 
Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in 

De Deutschers gif es a cheer ; 
I dinks dat so vine a barty 

Nefer coom to a het dis year. 



Hans Breitmann gife a barty ; 

Dere all vas Souse uud Brouse, 
Ven de sooper comed in, de gorapany 

Did make demselfs to house; 
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst uud Braten fine, 
Und vash der Abendesseu down 

Mit four parrels of Neekarwein. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty : 

We all cot troonk ash bigs. 
I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, 

Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. 
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane 

Und she shlog me on de kop, 
Und de gompany flted mit daple-lecks. 

Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — 

Wliere ish dat barty now? 
Where ish de lofelj^ golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern — 

De shtar of de shpirifs light? 
All goned afay mit de Lager Beer — 

Ai ay in de Ewigkeit ! 

Charles Godfrey Leland. 



-^sa-^M- 



SEWIl^G OJSr A BUTTOK 



ll^T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on. a button, but he is the embodiment of 
ip grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the 
■W case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for 
I this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to 
resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, 
or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the 
man clutches the needle around the neck, and, forgetting to tie a knot in the thread, 
commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty 
minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site 
of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread 
after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, — 
"Well, if women don't have the easiest time T ever see." Then he comes back the other 
way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the 
eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking 
against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingei's catch 
the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a 
twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single 
remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time, 



630 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUKY. 



when coming back with the needle, he keeps both the thi'ead and button from slipping by 
covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels 
around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner ; but eventually losing his phi- 
losophy, as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose 
and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the 
button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard 
against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the 
injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it 
into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor and calls upon heaven and earth 
to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, 
and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile he calms down, and puts on his pants, 
and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. 

J. M. Bailey (Danbury News Man). 



LITTLE BILLEE. 



kHERE were three sailors of Bristol City, 
Who took a boat and went to sea; 
/^pT But ftrst with beef and captain's biscuits 
J-l And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, 
A.ud the youngest he was little Billee ; 

Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, 
They 'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging .Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

"I am extremely hungaree." 
To gorging Jack says guzzling .Jimmy, 

••We've nothing left, us must eat we." 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling .Tiramy, 
••With one another we shouldn't agree, 

There's little Bill, he 's young and tender. 
We 'i-e old and tough, so let's eat he." 

"O Billy! we "re going to kill and eat you, 
So undo the button of your chemie," 



When Bill received this information, 
He used his pocket handkerchie. 

"First let me say my catechism 
AVTiich my poor mammj' taught to me," 

'•Make haste I make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, 
AVTiile .Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 

Bill}' went up to the main-top-gallant mast, 
And down he fell on his bended knee; 

He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment, 
When up he jumps — ••There "s laud I see! 

"Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And Xorth and South Amerikee; 
There 's the British flag a-riding at anchor. 

With Admiral Xapier, K. C. B." 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
He hanged Fat .Jack and flogged .Jimmee ; 

But as for little Bill, he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy-three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



-^s@-©si— 



A HOUSEKEEPER'S TRAGE])Y 



JXE day as I wandered I heard a complaining, 
SMi And saw a poor woman, the picture of gloom; 
She glared at the mud on her doorsteps ('twas 

raining) , 
Aud this was her wail as she wielded the broom : 

" O. life is a toil, and love is a trouble. 

And beauty ^vill fade, and riches will flee; 
And pleasures they dwindle, and prices they double, 

And nothing is what I could wish it to be. 



"There's too much of worriment goes to a bonnet; 

There's too much of ironing goes to a shirt; 
There 's nothing that pays for the time you waste on 
it; 

There's nothing that lasts but trouble and dirt. 

" In March it is mud : it's slush in December; 

The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust; 
In fall, the leaves litter; in muggy September 

The wall-paper rots, and the candlesticks rust. 



WIT AND HUMOR- 



631 



" There are worms in the cherries, and slugs in the 
roses, 

And ants in the sugar, and mice in the pies ; 
The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes, 

And ravaging roaches and damaging flies. 

" It 's sweeping at six, and dusting at seven ; 

It 's victuals at eight, and dishes at nine ; 
It 's potting and panning from ten to eleven; 

We scarce break our fast ere we plan how to dine. 

" With grease and with grime, from corner to centre, 
Forever at war, and forever alert. 



No rest for a day, lest the enemy enter — 
I spend my whole life in a sti'uggle with dirt. 

" Last night, in my dreams, I was stationed forever 
On a bare little isle in the midst of the sea ; 

My one chance of life was a ceaseless endeavor 
To sweep off the waves ere they swept over me 

" Alas, 'twas no dream! Again I behold it! 

I yield; I am helpless my fate to avert! '' 
She rolled down her sleeves, her apron she folded, 

Then laid down and died, and was bm'ied in dirt. 



THE PUZZLED CENSUS-TAKER. 

[" Nein " (pronounced nine) is the German for " No."] 



■>Wo 



any boys? " the marshal said 
<^| To a lady from over the Rhine ; 
'^s^ And the lady shook her flaxen head, 
J-l And civilly answered, ' Nein! " 

" Got any girls? " the marshal said 
To the lady from over the Rhine ; 

And again the lady shook her head. 
And civilly answered, "Nein! " 

" But some are dead? " the marshal said 
To the lady from over the Rhine ; 

And again the lady shook her head, 
And civilly answered " Nein! " 



" Husband, of course," the marshal said 

To the lady from over the Rhine ; 
And again she shook her flaxen head. 

And civilly answered, '' Nein! " 

" The devil you have! " the marshal said 
To the lady from over the Rhine ; 

And again she shook her flaxen head. 
And civilly answered, " Nein!"' 

"Now, what do you mean by shaking your head. 
And always answering ' Nine '? " 

"• Ich kann nicht Englisch! "' civilly said 
The lady from over the Rhine." 

John Godfrey Saxe. 



-3^~ic-^ 



OLD JIM'S PRAYER 

(THE FIRST STEAMBOAT UP THE ALABAMA.) 

i^OU, Dinah ! Come and set me whar de ribber- I know my front ones is stopped up, and things is sort 



roads does meet. 



o' dim ; 



If'^ De Lord, He made dese black-jack roots to But, den, th"u' dem temptations vain won't leak in on 
twis' into a seat. ole Jim' ! 

Umph. dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' De back ones shows me earth enough, aldo' dey 's 



mons'ous slim. 

And as for Hebben — bless de Lord, and praise His 

holy name ! 
Dat shines in all de co'ners o' dis cabin jes de same 
As ef dat cabin had n't nar a plank upon de frame! 

Who call me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah ! Don't 
you hyar 
Dese ears dey sees de world, like th'u' de cracks dat's Som'body holl'in' "Hoo, Jim, boo?" My Sarah died 

indedo'; las' y'ar; 

For de Lord has built dis cabin wid de winders hind Is dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim 
and 'fo'. from hyar? 



ole nigger's feet. 

It pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June, 
I 'clar, I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle 

soon ! 
Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin" in 

de moon. 

Well, ef dis nigger is been blin' for fo'ty year or mo'. 



632 THE golde:n tkeasury. 

My stars! dat can't be Sarah— shuh. jes'listeu, Dinah, Sut jDhiah! Shuh! dat gal Jes' like dts little 

now ! /lick'ty-tree, 

What kin be comin" up dat bend, a-makin" sich a 3)e sap's Jis t^isin' in her; she do ffrow owda- 

row? cioifslee — 

Fus' bellerin', like a pawin' bull, den squealin" like a Zord, ef you's clarin de ' underdrush, don't 

sow ! c/(t her down — cut nie! 

De Lord 'a' massy sakes alive ! jes' hear — Ker-woof! I >t^ofe/d not proud j)?^esume — but yet I'll 

Ker-woof! boldly make reques', 

De Debbie "s comin" round dat bend— he "s comin", Se?ice Jacob had dat wastlin' snatch, I, too, 

shuh enuff, ffwine do my bes'; 

A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his Ifhen Jacob got all underholt, de Zord Me 

hoof! answered, Tes! 



I 's pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I aiu't gwine 



ci.nd what for waste de wittels no7f, and th'ow 



runaway; 

I 'm ffwiue to Stan' stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed -^ . ^ '. . ., ' . ,, , 

, . Jes' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch 

■^ ■', 111 1 -11 ^oif dis ole bald hec/d? 

You screech, and howl, and swish de water, Satan! ^. , ^,. ,^,, ^,. 

y . . Tink of de 'conomy, Jnahs'r, ef dts ole Jim 



hebbe77ly Jfahs'r, what Thou wiliest dat 

mus' be /es' so Stop; ef I don't believe de Debbie's gone on up de 
jlnd ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nig- stream. 

aers boun' to go. ^^'^^ '^°^^' ^^ squealed down dar! — hush; dat "s a 
Den, Zord, please take ole Jim, and lef young mighty weakly scream . 

T)inah hyar below! ^^^S' S""' ^^ "^ go'i*^' ^^ '^ gone; —he snort away off, 

like in a dream! 
Scuse Dinah, scuse fier, JPfahs'r: for she's sich 

a little child, O glory, hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high ! 

She's hardly Jes' begi?i to scramble up de De Debbie "s fa"rly skeered to def; he done gone 

home-yard stile; flyin' by; 

Sut dis ole traveler's feet bin tired dis many I know'd he could "n' stan' dat pra'r, I felt my Mahs'r 

a many a mile. nigh ! 

1 'se wufess as de rotten pole o' las' year's You, Dinah, ain't you 'shamed now dat you did n't 

fodder-stack; trust to grace? 

De rheumatiz done bit my bones: you hyar I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed 

'ef?> crack and crack ? his face ! 

Z can't sit down 'd out gruntin' like 'twas You fool, you t'ink de Debbie couldn't beat you in a 

break in o' my back. race? 

What use de w?ieel when hub and spokes is I tell you, Dinah, jes' as sure as you is stand in' dar. 

7farped and split and rotte^i? When folks start prayin', answer-angels drop down 
What use dis dried- up cotton-stalk when Zife th"u' de a'r; 

done picked my cotton? Yea, Dinah, whar 'ould you be now, exceptin' fur dat 
Z'se like a word, dat somebody done said, and pra'r? 

den forgotten. Sidney and Clifford Lanier. 

-,.- — ,. — .a^ ZZ - X^ NS' — ° — — 

CATALOGUE OF DICKEl^S' WORKS. 

''^LIVER TWIST, who had some very Hard Times in the Battle of Life, and 
having been saved from The Wreck of the Golden Mary by Our Mutual Friend, 
Nicholas yickleby, had just finished reading A Tale of Two Cities to Martin 
Chuzzlewit, during which time The Cricket on the Hearth had been chirping merrily 
while The Chimes from an adjacent church were heard when Seven Poor Travelers 
from Mughy Junction commenced singing A Christmas Carol; Barnaby Budge then 




WIT AND HUMOE. 



633 



arrived from Tlie Old Curiosity Shop with some Pictures from Italy, and Sketches by 
Boz, to show to Little Dorrit, who was busy with the Pickwick Papers, when David 
Copperjield, who had been taking American Notes, entered and informed the comjoany 
that the Great Expectations of Dombey and Son regarding Mrs. Lirripur' s Legacy 
had not been realized; and that he had seen Boots at the Lm taking Somebody' s Lug- 
gage to Mrs. Lirripur's Lodgings in a street that has No Tlioroughfare, opposite 
Bleak House; where the Haunted Man, who had just given one of Doctor Marigold^ s 
Prescriptions to an Uncommercial Traveler, was brooding over the Mystery of Edwin 
Drood. 




THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. 



I^flGHTING.'VLE, that all daj^ lorjg 
Had cheered the village with his soug, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
Nor yet at eventide was ended, 
Began to feel — as well he might — 
The keen demands of api^etite ; 
When, looking eagerly around. 
He spied, far off, upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark, 
And knew the glow-worm hy his spark; 
So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
He thought to put him in his crop. 
The worm, aware of his intent. 



Harangued him thus, quite eloquent, — 

" Did j^ou admii-e my lamp," quoth he, 
" As much as I j^our minstrelsy. 
You would abhor to do me wrong. 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 't was the self-same Power divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine; 
That j'ou with nmsic, I with light. 
Might beautify aud cheer the night." 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And, warbling out his approbation. 
Released him. as mj^ story tells. 
And found a supper somewhere else. 

William Cowper. 



-i-E3-^.(r-e_r- 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 



|HEY 'VE got a bran new organ. Sue, 
For all their fuss and search ; 
'^^ They 've done just as they said they'd do, 
J4 And fetched it into church. 

Thej^'re bound the critter shall be seen, 

And on the preacher's right 
They "ve hoisted up their new machine 

In everybody's sight. 
They "ve got a chorister and chou". 

Ag'in my voice and vote ; 
For it was never mj' desire 
To praise the Lord by note! 

I 've been a sister good an' true, 

For five an' thirty year; 
I 've done what seemed my part to do, 

And prayed my duty clear; 
I 've sung the hymns both slow and ([uick, 

Just as the preacher read ; 
And twice, when Deacon Tuhbs was sick, 

I took the fork an' led ! 
An' now their bold, new-fangled ways 

Is comin" all about; 
And I, right in my latter days, 

Am fairly crowded out! 



To-day the preacher, good old dear, 

With tears all in his eyes. 
Read — "I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies."' 
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 

I s'pose I al'ays will; 
It somehow gratifies my whim, 

In good old Ortonville ; 
But when that choir got up to sing, 

I could n't catch a word ; 
They sung the most dog-gonedest thing 

A body ever heard ! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near. 

An' when I see them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear. 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I "d chase the tune along. 

An' tried with all my might; 
But though my voice is good an' strong, 

I couldn't steer it right. 
When they was high, then I was low. 

An' also contra'wise; 
And I too fast, or they too slow, 

To "mansions in the skies." 



634 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



An" after every verse, you kuow, 

The}" played a little time ; 
I didn't understand, and so 

I started in too soon. 
I pitched it purty middlin" high, 

And fetched a lusty tone, 
But O, alas ! 1 found that I 

Was siugin' there alone! 
They laughed a little, I am told ; 

But I had done my best; 
And not a wave of ti'ouhle roUed 

Across my peaceful breast. 

And Sister Brown — I could but look, 

She sits right front of me — 
She uever was no singin' book, 

An' never went to be; 
But then she aFays tried to do 

The best she could, she said; 
She understood the time right through. 

An' kep' it with her head; 
But when she tried this mornin', O, 

I had to laugh, or cough ! 
It kep' her head a bobbin' so, 

It e'en a'most come off ! 



An' Deacon Tubbs, he all broke down, 

As one might well suppose ; 
He took one look at Sister Brown, 

And meekly scratched his nose. 
He looked his hynm-book through and through. 

And laid it on the seat. 
And then a pensive sigh he drew. 

And looked completely beat. 
An' when they took another bout, 

He didn't even rise; 
But (Irawed his red bandaimer out, 

Au' wiped his weeping eyes. 

I 've been a sister, good an' true. 

For five an' thirty year; 
I 've done what seemed mj- part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear; 
But death will sto^j m_v voice, I know. 

For he is on my track; - 
And some day, I '11 to meetin" go, 

And nevermore come back. 
And when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be — 
1 do not want no patent thing 

A squealin-* over me ! 

Will. M. Carleton. 



s-^CL^ 



THE DECLARATION. 




AITH! women are riddles! '' I muttered one 
day 
As I sat by mj- beautiful Bess ; 
It seems very queer that whatever they say, 
Their meaning no mortal can ffuess. 



I knew that she loved me by many a sign 

That served her affection to show ; 
But when I suggested, will Betty be mine? 

Confound her! — she answered me "Xo! •' 

'Tis the way with the sex — so I often had heard - 

And thus their assent they express ; 
But I couldn't but think it extremely absurd 

That a '• Xo '' was the same as a •' Yes."' 



So I asked her again, with my heart in a whirl, 

-Vnd said, "Do not answer me so! " 
T^Tien twice in succession the mischievous girl 

Repeated that odious '• Xo." 

"There! " she said, with a laugh, "that is certainly 
plain ; 

And your hearing is not over-nice. 
Or you wouldn't have forced me to say it again; 

For I think I have s)>oken it twice." 

'• I see," I exclaimed, as I chisped in mj' own 

The hand of m_v beautiful Bess : 
'• I now recollect — what the grammar has shown — 

Two negatives equal a "Yes." 

John Godfrey Saxe. 




Part X. 




^ntttttient ^nb ^itilittixon. 



^^csCM^^s)^ 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 



-ff— '*-'^^/2^:^^-2/Z/l^-S— s— 




ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



|HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the heetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tiuklings lull the distant folds: 

637 



638 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 



Save that from j-onder hy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 



For them no more the blazing hearth shall bm-n, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire"s return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 




' The lo-ivins: herd winds slowly o'er the lea." 



Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree"s shade. 

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furi'ow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they di'ive their team afield I 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 




' Drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds." 



The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swaUow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

Xo more shall rouse them from their lowlv bed. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Xor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



639 



The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 



Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the lleetinff breath? 




"Children run to lisp their sire's return." 



Await alike the inevitable hour ; 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 



Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 




" Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield." 

Nor you. ye proud, impute to these the fault, Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 

The i)ealing anthem swells the note of praise. Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre ; 



640 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



But Knowledge to their ere? her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er um-oll; 



Full man}- a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 




"How jocund did they drive their team afield." 



Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 



Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tjTant of his fields withstood, 




'Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his field withstood." 



Pull many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 



Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some CroniAvell guiltless of his country's blood. 



SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



641 



The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their historj'^ in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 



Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forge tfulness a prey. 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 




Wade through slaughter to a throne. 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 



The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 



On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate : 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thj- fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn: 



642 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 



Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 




" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove." 



His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 



One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 




"Approach and read— for thou canst read — the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath von aged thorn." 



Hard by jon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 



Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



{)43 



The next, with dirges due in sad aii-ay, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
home : — 
Approach and read (for thou caust read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath you aged thorn. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 



Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose). 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 



-"«>• s-^e^^ 



THANATOPSIS. 



iO him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hom-s 

K She has a voice of gladness and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour comes like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart- 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of aii- — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements — 
To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thouretire alone; nor could'st thou wish 
Conch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, — ^^ith kings, 
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good. 
Fair foi'ms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills. 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The A'enerable woods; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

40 



That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
Old oceau's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Ai-e but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the ^\■ings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's green spring, and he \\ho goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man- 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wra]5s the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



644 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 



REMEMBEE, I remember 

The house where I was born. 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 
But now I often ^\-ish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 



I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on mj^ brow. 




'*I remember, I remember 
The house where I was bom.' 



I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white. 
The violets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs, where the robin built. 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The ti-ee is living yet! 



I remember. I remember 

The ftr- trees dark and high; 
I used to think their slenSer tops 

Wei-e close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I 'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



-^s®-^^^ 



n|HERE appears to exist a greater desire to live long than to live well. Measure by 
^ man's desires, he cannot live long enough; measure by his good deeds, and he has 
not lived long enough; measure by his evil deeds, and he has lived too long. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



645 



TWO SONNETS. 



A I.— SOLITUDE. 

^|0, child of sorrow, to the lonely wood, 

^^ And company with trees, and rocks and hills, 

?W? With creeping vines, with flow'rs, and gentle 



n.— DESPAIR. 



creeping vines 
W rills, 

That seem themselves to feel the musing mood, 
And feed with thought the charming solitude. 
There is a spirit in the groves that tills 
The heart with such an influence as steals 
The outward sense, and leaves the soul imbued 
With pow'r to hold communion with the dead; 
And ministering angels here may tell 
Some happy story of the spirit home : 
Some lov'd one gone, for whom the heart has bled, 
May whisper thoughts the sad unrest to quell. 
And point to realms of joy and bid thee come. 



Death in Life ! O grave where grim Despair 
Hath buried hope, and ev'rj' pleasing dream 
Of what the years may bring ! The titf ul gleam 
Of light that lingers yet, but points me Mhere 
A glory might have been ; and shapes of fear 
Look through the gloom, till my surroundings seem 
The work of some malignant thing, su2)reine 
O'er all my pow'rs to plan, to strive, to bear. 
Ere yet high noon of days, bereft of strength 
To toil for those committed to my hand. 
And doomed to see no more a smiling sun, 
I find that all is bitterness at length. 
Yet, God hath care of us ; here let me stand. 
And say, with steadfast heart. "His will be done." 
Ed. Poktek Thompson. 




"Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime." 

TOO LATE I STAYED. 



■^'^;^ 



i|00 late I stayed , — forgive the crime ! 
Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account remarks 
The ebbings of its glass, 



When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
That dazzle as they pass? 

Oh, who to sober measurement 
Time's happj' swiftness brings, 
. When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings? 

William Eobert Spencer. 



646 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 




^Dl^y life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the mornmg sky, 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 
Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But none shall weep a tear for rae ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 

Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 
Restless — and soon to pass away ! 



Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent ti-ee wiU mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the lealluss tree, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints ^\•hieh feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All h-ace will vanish from the sand; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henky Wilue. 




*' Night is the time for toil, 
To plough the classic field.' 



NIGHT. 



^IGHT is the time for rest; 

How sweet when labors close. 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of i-epose; 
Sh-etch the tired limbs and lay the head 
Upon our own delightful bed! 

Night is the time for dreams ; 

The gay romance of life. 
AVTien truth that is. and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife; 
Ah! visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are 



Night is the time for toil ; 

To plough the classic field, 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its ^^-ealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught. 
That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep ; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joj's of other years; 
Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
But perished young, like things of earth! 



SENTEVIENT AND REFLECTION. 



647 



Night is the time to watch; 

O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
To hail the Pleaides, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance, 
That brings unto the homesick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care ; 

Brooding on hours misspent, 
To see the spectre of despair 



Beyond the starrj' pole. 
Descries athwart the abyss of night 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray ; 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away, — 

So wiU his followers do ; 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And hold communion with their God. 




' Night is the time to watch, 
O'er ocean's dark expanse.' 



Come to our lonely tent: 
Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host. 
Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. 

Night is the time to muse ; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 



Night is the time for death ; 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath, — 

From siu and suffering cease : — 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends :— such death be mine, 

James Montgomery. 



sS-Ss^ 



MAJESTIC Night! 

Nature's great ancestor! day's elder born! 
And fated to survive the transient sun! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe : 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's 
loom' 
Wrought througli varieties of shape and shade. 



In ample folds of drapery divine. 

Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout, 

Voluminously pour thy pompous train: 

Thy gloomy grandeurs — Nature's most august. 

Inspiring aspect! — claim a grateful verse; 

And, like a sable curtain starred with gold. 

Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 



648 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 



^^EEAK, break, break, 

On thy cold, gray ston3S, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 



And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 




" Break, break, break, 
On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea ! 



O well for the fisherman's boy. 
That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the bay. 



Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 




EEFLECTIOI:^S IIST WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

i;T^i^HEN I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; 
when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; 
when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with 
compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the 
vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly foUow. When I see kings 
lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy 
men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and 
astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I 
read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred 
years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make 
our appearance together. 

Joseph Addison. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



649 



BUGLE-SONG. 



I^HE splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in g]orJ^ 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 



The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill, or field, or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 




" The splendor falls on castle walls, 
And snowy summits old in stor}'." 



O, hark! O, hear how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
0, sweet and far from cliff and scar 



And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dj'ing, djing, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



^HERE the owner of the house is bountifulj it is not for the steward to be 
niggardly. 



650 



THE GOLDEl^f TEEASUKY. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 



mipHOSE evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
W^ How many a tale their music tells 
!S!k Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
^Yhen last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay 



Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

Aud so "t will be when I am goue.- 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

Thomas Moore. 




z.-^ " — Its gnarled oaks olden, 
-^ Dark with the mistletoe." 



'*'".3 



^IpMOXG the beautiful pictures 
^my That hang on Memory's wall, 

fis one of a dim old foi-est, 
That seemeth best of all ; 



PICTURES OF MEMORY. 



T^ot foi its gnarled oaks olden, 
Dark with the mistletoe ; 

Not for the violets golden 
That sprinkle the vale below; 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



G51 



Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

"Where the bright red berries vest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother. 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers, • 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weaiy, 

And one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the j^ellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 



As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the ti-ee-tops bright, 

He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
Asleep by the gates of light. 




" Light as the down of the thistle, 
Free as the winds that blow." 

Therefore of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall. 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 

AxicE Gary. 



-^9- 



-CL^ 




THE DIYII^^ITY OF POETET. 

|OETRY is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best 
minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling, sometimes 
associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and 
always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful 
beyond all expression; so that, even in the desire and the regret they leave, there 
cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is, 
as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own ; but its footsteps are 
like those of a wind over the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain 
only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of 
being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most 
enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base 
desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked 
with such emotions ; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. 
Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organization, 
but they can color all that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethereal world ; 
a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted 
chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, 
the cold, the buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and 
most beautiful in the world ; it arrests the vanishing apparitions Avhich haunt the 
interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth 
among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters 
abide — abide, because there is no portal of expressions from the caverns of the spirit 
which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations 
of the divinity in man. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



(352 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 



THE LESSON OF THE WATER-MILL. 



2ISTEX to the water-mill 
^ Through the live-loug day, 
How the clicking of its wheel 
Wears the hours away ! 



And a proverb haunts my mind 

As a spell is cast : 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 




" Frnm the field the reapers sing, 
Binding up the sheaves." 



Languidly the autumn wind 

Stirs the forest leaves. 
From the fields the reapers sing, 

Binding up the sheaves ; 



Autumn winds revive no more 
Leaves that once are shed, 

And the sickle cannot reap 
Corn once gathered; 



SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



()53 



Flows the ruffled streamlet ou, 

Tranquil, deep and still; 
Never gliding back again 

To the water-mill ; 
Truly speaks that proverh old 

With a meaning vast — 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Take the lesson to thyself, 

True and loving heart ; 
Grolden youth is fleeting by. 

Summer hours depart; 
Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day, 
Time will never bring thee back, 

Chances swept away ! 
Leave no tender word unsaid, 

Love, while love shall last; 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past."' 

Work while yet the daylight shines, 

Man of strength and vxill ! 
Never does the streamlet glide 

Useless by the mill ; 
Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams upon thy way. 
All that thou canst call thine own 

Lies in thy "to-day; '' 
Power and intellect and health 

May not always last; 
"The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by ! 
Oh, the good that might have been, 

Lost without a sigh ! 



Love that we might once have saved 

By a single word. 
Thoughts conceived but never penned. 

Perishing unheard • 




-S-'eXT^ 



"Listen to the watermill, 
Through the livelong day." 

Take the proverb to thine heart, 

Take and hold it fast, 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Sakah Doudney. 



A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 



[§J^H, where will be the birds that sing. 

A hundred years to come? 
The flowers that now in beauty spring, 

A hundred years to come? 
The rosy lip, the lofty brow, 
The heart that beats so gaily now. 
Oh, where will be love's beaming, eye, 
Joys pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come? 

Who "U press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come? 
"V^T^o "11 tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come? 



Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its brow of truth; 
The rich and poor, on land and sea, 
Where will the mighty millions be 
A hundred years to come? 

We all within our graves shall sleep 

A hundred j^ears to come! 
No living soul for us will weep 

A hundred years to come ! 
But other men our lands shall till. 
And others then onr streets will fill. 
While other birds will sing as gay, 
As bright the sunshine as to-day 

A hundred years to come! 

William Goldsmith 



654 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE TWO WEAVERS. 



■^^"^S at their work two weavers sat, 

Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
'y^^ They touched upon the price of meat, 
j>l So high a weaver scarce could eat. 



"In spite of all the Scripture teaches, 
In spite of all the pulpit preaches. 
The world, indeed I "ve thought so long, 
Is ruled, methinks, extremely ^\Tong. 




"Quoth John, ' Our ignorance is the cause 
^ATiy thus we blame our Maker's laws.' " 



"What with my babes and sickly wife," 
Quoth James. "I 'm almost tired of life. 
So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
'T is more than mortal man can bear. 



"WTiere'er I look, howe'er I range. 
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange: 
The good are troubled and opprest. 
And all the wicked are the blest." 



"How glorious is the rich man's state. 
His house so fine, his ^\•ealth so great; 
Heaven is unjust, you must agree : 
AVhv all to him. and none to me? 



Quoth John, '-Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws; 
Parts of His ways alone we know. 
'Tis all that man can see below. 



SENTBIENT AND REFLECTION. 



655 



"See'st thou that carpet, uothalf done. 
Which thou, dear James, hast well beguu? 
Behold the wild confusion there I 
So rude the mass, it makes one stare. 

"A stranger, ignorant of tlie trade, 
Would say no meaning's there conveyed ; 
For where "s the middle, where 's the border? 
The carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth James, "My work is yet in bits. 
But still in every part it fits ; 
Besides, you reason like a lout. 
Why, man, that carpet 's inside out! " 

Says John "Thou say'st the thing I mean, 

And now I hope to cure thy spleen : 

The world, which clouds thy soul with 

doubt, 
Is but a carpet inside out. 

"As when we view these shreds and ends, 
We know not what the whole intends ; 



So when on earth things look but odd. 
They "re working still some scheme of God. 

"No plan, no pattern can we trace ; 
All wants proportion, truth, and grace; 
The motley mixture we deride, 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

"But when we reach the world of light. 
And view these works of God aright. 
Then shall we see the whole design. 
And own the Workman is divine. 

"What now seem random strokes, will there 
All order and design appear ; 
Then shall we praise what here we spurned, 
For there the carpet will be turned." 

"Thou'rt right," quoth James, "no more I '11 

grumble. 
That this world is so strange a jumble; 
My impious doubts are put to flight. 
For my own carpet sets me right. 

Hannah More. 



..<>"^-^o<>., 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 



WM PLUCKED pink blossoms from my Apple-tree, 
i^ And wore them all that evening in my hair; 

T Then in due season when I went to see, 

I I found no apples there. 

With dangling basket all along the grass. 

As I had come, I went the self-same track. 
My neighbors mocked me when they saw me pass 
So empty-handed back. 

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by. 

Their heaped-up baskets teased me like a jeer; 
Sweet- voiced they sang beneath the summer sky — 
Their mother's home was near. 

Plump Gertrude passed me vdth her basket fuU ; 
A stronger hand than hers helped it along ; 



A voice talked \\'ith her through the shadows cool. 
More sweet to me than song. 

Ah, Willie, Willie ! was my love less worth 

Than apples with their green leaves piled above? 
I counted rosiest apples on the earth 
Of far less worth than love. 

So once it was with me you stopped to talk, 

Laughing and listening in this very lane: — 
To think that by these ways we used to walk 
"We shall not walk again ! 

I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos 

And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, 
And hastened ; but I lingered ; while the dews 
Fell fast; I lingered still. 



sS-H^ss 



JUNE. 



GAZED upon the glorious sky. 

And the green mountains round. 
And thought that when I came to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, 
A^Vhen brooks send up a cheerful tune. 

And groves a joyous soimd, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make. 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 



A cell within the frozen mould, 
A cofHu borne through sleet. 

And icy clods above it rolled. 
While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away! I will not think of these; 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze. 
Earth green beneath the feet. 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 

Into my narrow place of rest. 



656 



THE GOLDElsr TEEASUEY. 



There, through the long, long summer hours 

The golden light should lie. 
And thick 3'oung herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beautj' by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside iny cell; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 



I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show, 
ISTor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild umsic flow; 
But if, around my place of sleep 
The friends I love should come to weep. 

They might not haste to go ; 
Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 




" And what if, in the evening- lig-ht 
Betrothed lovers wall< in sig-ht, ' 
Of my low monument?'' 



And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come, from the village sent. 

Or song of maids beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent? 

And what if, in the evening light. 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument? 

I would the lovelj' scene around 

Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 



These to their softened hearts should bear 

Tlie thought of what has been. 
And ppeak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene: 
"V^Tiose part in all the pomp that fills 
The circtiit of the summer hills 

Is that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




K'^ ^'^^ly instinct, or sense, has an end or design, and every emotion in man has 
its object and direction, we must conchide that the desire of communing with God 
is but a test of his being destined for a future existence, and the longing after immortality 
the promise of it. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTEON. 



G57 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 



^USH! 'tis a hply hour — the quiet room 

Seeuis like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
~'fi''~ A faiut and starry radiance, through the gloom, 
J4 Aud the sweet stillness, down on fair young 
heads, 
With all their clusfring locks, untouched by care, 
Aud bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in 
prayer. 

Gaze on— 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and cheek. 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought- 
Gaze— yet what seest thou in those fair, aud meek 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 
What death nmst fashion for Eternity. 



Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 
Is woman's tenderness, — how soon her woe! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 
hour. 
And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! 
And to make idols, and to And them clay, 
And to bewail that worship,— therefore pray! 

Her lot is on you— to be found untired. 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain. 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; 




" Fair young- heads, 

With all their clusfring locks, untouched hV care. 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer." 



O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 
'Midst the dim-folded leaves at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts! thovigh yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled 
springs 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread. 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits AHsiting but j'outh, be spread; 



Meekly to bear v/ith wrong, to cheer decay, 

And oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper-time. 
With its low murmuring sounds aud silvery 
light. 

On through the dark daj'S fading from their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight: 

Earth will forsake — O! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



658 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



WHAT IS LIFE? 



®^*^^ND what "s a life? — a weaiy pilgrimage, 
^ Whose glory in one daj' doth flU the stage 
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 

•^ And what 's a life? — the tlom-ishing array 
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 

Eead on this dial, how the shades devour 

3Iy short-lived winter's day I hour eats up hour; 

Alas ! the total 's but from eight to four. 



Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made. 

Fair copies of nw life, and open laid 

To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! 

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ; 
My uon-aged day already points to noon; 
How simple is my suit ! — how small my boon ! 

Xor do I beg this slender inch to wile 
The time away, or falselj' to beguile 
My thoughts with joy : here 's nothing worth a smile. 

Francis Quarles. 




"Yonder a man at the heavens is staring, 
Wringing his hands as in sorrowful case." 

CALM IS THE NIGHT. 



^iplALM is the night, and the citj- is sleeping. 
^^P^ Once in this house dwelt a lady fair; 
4r Long, long ago, she left it, weeping— 
>l But still the old house is standing there. 

Yonder a man at the heavens is staring, 
AVringing his hands as in sorrowful case; 



He turns to the moonlight, his countenance baring — 
O Heaven ! he shows me my own sad face ! 

Shadowy form, with my own agreeing! 

Why mockest thou thus, in the moonlight cold. 
The sorrows ^^'hich here once vexed my being. 

Many a night in the daj-s of old? 

Charles Godfrey Leland. 

( From the German of ffeine.] 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



(]5U 



SONG. 




E sail toward evening's lonely star. 

That ti'enibles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar, 

Burnt >vith dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky. 

Lies low along the fading west; 
How sweet to watch its splendors die. 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind caressed ! 

The soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 
To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer; 

Upon the dark edge of the bay 
Light-houses kindle far and near, 



And through the warm deeps of the sky 
Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 

In deep refreshment, thou and I, 
Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even. 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
Oh, realize the moment's charm, 

Thou dearest! We are at life's best, 
Folded in God's encircling arm, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! 

Celia Thaxter. 



-Ty-5<S,^ 




' Over the flowery lawn, 
Maids are at play." 



MAY. 



'm^^AS the old glory passed 






J4 



From tender May — 
That never the echoing blast 
Of bugle-horns merry, and fast 
Dying away like the past, 

Welcomes the day? 

Has the old Beanty gone 
From golden May — 
That not any more at dawn 

41 



Over the floweiy lawn. 
Or knolls of the forest withdrawn 
Maids are at play? 

Is the old freshness dead 

Of the fairy May?— 
Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! 
Ah! the young maidens unwed! 
Golden locks — cheeks rosy red! 

Ah! where are they? 

John Esten Cooke. 



660 



THE GOLDEN^ TEEASLTRY. 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY 



i"\ATLIGHT"S soft dews steal o'er the village green, 
With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
Stilled is the hum that through the hamletbroke, 
■^\Tien round the ruins of their ancient oalv 
The peasants flocked to hear the miusti-el plaj^ 
And games and carols closed the busj' da^^ 

Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 

With treasured tales and legendary lore. 

All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows 

To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 

All, all are fled ; yet stiU I linger here ! 

What secret charms this silent spot endear? 



As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
And traced the line of life with searching ^^ew, 
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and 

fears, 
To learn the color of my future years ! 

. ******* 

Lulled in the countless chambei'S of the brain. 
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. 
Awake but one, and, lol what mj^riads rise! 
Eacli stamps its image as the other flies. 
Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, 




"With treasured tales and legendan,' lore.' 



Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, 
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivj- 's brownest shade. 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gateway sti'ews the grass-grown 

court. 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; 
IVhen all things pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promised what the fancv drew. 

******* 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The gjTsy "s fagot, — there we sat and gazed ; 
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, 
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw. 



Brightens or fades ; yet all, vnth magic art, 
Control the latent fibres of the heart. 
As studious Prosyjero's mysterious spell 
Drew eveiy subject-spirit to his cell; 
Each, at thy call, advances or retires. 
As judgment dictates or the scene inspires. 
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 
And through the frame invisibly convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as the)' play; 
Man's little universe at once o'ercast. 
At once illumined when the cloud is past. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



6G1 



Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, 
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
O'er thyniy downs she bends her busy course, 
And many a stream allures her to its source. 
'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, 
Beyond the search of sense, the soai- of thought. 
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? 
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph sweU? 
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew 
Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew? 
Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign 
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 



To meet the changes time and chance present 
With modest dignity and calm content. 
When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest, 
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed. ; 
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling :5led, 
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave. 
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the giave? 
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth, 
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth! 

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 




" The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court." 



thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share 
From reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; 
With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know 
The humble walks of happiness below ; 
If thy blest nature now unites above 
An angel's pity with a brother's love, 
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 
Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind. 
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise. 
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, 



Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, hope's summer-visions die, 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 
If but a beam of sober reason play, 
Lo! fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! 
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight. 
Pour round her path a stream of living light; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! 

Samuel Rogers. 



G62 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



A JOY FOREVER. 



THING of beauty is a joy forever : 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet di-eams, and health, and quiet 
breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
Of all the unhealthy and o"er-darkened ways 
Made for our searching; yes, in spite of aU, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 



From oiu- dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
With the green \\orld they live in; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
"Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair nuisk-rose blooms: 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or i-ead : 
An endless fountain of innnortal drink. 
Pouring unto us from the Heaven's brink. 

John Keats. 






'TIS THE LAST ROSE OE SUMMER. 




the last rose of summer 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely comijanions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rosebud is nigh. 
To reflect back her blushes. 

To ffive sigrh for sigh. 



I "11 not leave thee, thou lone one, 

To pine on the stem; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 



Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

AVhen friendships decay. 
And from Love's shining circle 

Tlie gems drop away I 
When true liearts lie withered 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh I who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 

Thomas Moore. 



THE ISLE OF THE LONG- AGO. 



|H, a wonderful sti-eam is tlie River Time, 
As it flows through the realm of Tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime 
As it blends with the ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow 

And the summers like buds between ; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go 
On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, 

As they glide in the shadow and sheen. 

There *s a magical Isle up the River Time 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 
There 's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime. 

And the Junes with the roses are staying 

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, 
And we bury our treasures there; 



There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so ! 
There are trinkets and tresses of hau\ 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings. 

And a part of an infant's praj'er. 
There 's a harp uus\\ept and a lute without strings. 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings. 

And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air ; 
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wand down the River is fair. 

Oh. remembered for aye. be the blessed Isle 

All the day of our life till night. 
And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our e3^es are closing in slumber awhile. 

May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight. 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



663 



HOPE. 



jT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
"Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye. 
Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 



And every form, that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

******* 
Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peeled their first notes to sound the march of Time. 
Thy joyous youth began, — but not to fade. 
When all the sister planets have decayed ; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven 's last thunder shakes the world below • 
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Natm-e's funeral pile. 

Thomas Campbell. 



-^=s— ^^ 




TO A CHILD. 



cr^^^^ 



^H, while from me, this tender morn depart 
Dreams, vague and vain and wild, 
"^^ Sing, happy child, and dance into my heart, 
Where I was once a child. 



»si€p?r>?53 



Your eyes they send the butterflies before. 

Your lips they kiss the rose ; 
O gentle child, joy opes your morning door- 

Joy blesses your repose ! 



ITie fairy Echo-Children love you, try 

To steal your loving voice ; 
Flying you laugh — they, laughingwhile you fly, 

Gay with your glee rejoice. 

Oh, while from me, this tender morn depart 

Dreams vague and vain and Avild, 
Play, happy child — sing, dance, within my heart. 

Where I will be a child ! 

John Jamks Piatt. 



664 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



SONNET. 



IJHaY follows day; years perish ; still mine eyes 
1^ Are opeued on the self-same round of space ; 
^ Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace, 
I* And the large splendors of those opulent skies. 
I I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes 
'' Of dawTi or sunset ; the soft boughs which lace 
Eound some coy Dryad in a lonely place, 
Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan sighs : 



His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new 
Even in a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn, 
The spear-like grass, the silvery rime of morn, 
A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 




" Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace.' 

Weary ! The poet's mind is fresh as dew, 
And oft refilled as fountains of the light. 



LIFE'S INCONGRUITIES. 

IeEEN grows the lam-el on the hank, 
Dark waves the pine upon the hill, 
Green haugs the lichen, cold aud dank, 

Dark springs the hearts-ease by the rill. 
Age-mosses clamber ever bright. 
Pale is the water-lilj'"s bloom : 
Thus life still courts the shades of night, 
And beautj' hovers o'er the tomb. 

So, all through life, incongruous hue 
Each object wears from childhood down ; 

The evanescent — heaven's blue, 
The all-enduring — sober brown ; 

Our brightest dreams too quickly die, 
Aud griefs are green that should be old, 

Aud joys that sparkle to the eye 

Are like a tale that's quickly told. 

• 

And yet 'tis but the golden mean 

That checks our lives' uusteadj' flow; 
God's counterbalance thrown between, 

To poise the scale 'twixt joy and woe: 
And better so ; for were the bowl 

Too freely to the inarched lip given. 
Too much of grief would crush the soul, 

Too much of joy would wean from heaven. 

Egbert Phelps. 



-s-vSe- 



EQUINOCTIAL. 



jHE sun of life has crossed the line ; 

The summer-shine of lengthened light 
Faded and failed — till, where I stand, 
"Tis equal day and equal night. 

One after one as d^^indling hours, 
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, 

And soon may bai'elj' leave the gleam 
That coldly scores a winter's day. 

1 am not young — I am not old ; 

The flush of morn, the sunset calm. 
Paling and deepening, each to each, 

Meet midway A\ith a solemn charm. 



One side I see the summer flelds, 
Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 

AVliile westerly, along the hills. 
Flame the first tints of frostj^ sheen. 

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm 
Make battle-ground of this my life ! 

Where, even matched, the night and day 
Wage round me their September strife. 

I bow me to the threatening gale : 

I know -when that is overpast. 
Among the peaceful harvest days 

An Indian Summer comes at last. 

Mrs. a. D. T. Whitney. 



SENTLVIENT AND REFLECTION. 



665 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 



HPIWO children in t\vo neighbor villages 

1^ Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; 

f' Two sti-angers meeting at a festival; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; 
* Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; 



Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, 
Washed with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 

Alfred Tennyson. 




*'The nightingale, whose melody is through the green-wood ringing." 

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. 



IIJlpHE rose upon my balcony, the morning air per- 
^^ fuming, 

'^^ Was leafless all the winter-time and pining for 
ii the spring; 

You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her 

cheek is blooming : 
It is because the sun is out and bii'ds begin to sing. 

The nightingale, whose melody is through the green- 
wood ringing. 

Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds 
were blowing: keen. 



And if. Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his sing- 
ings 

It is because the sun is out and aU the leaves are 
green. 

Thus each performs his part. Mamma : the birds have 
found their voices. 

The blowing rose a flush. Mamma, her bonny cheek to 
dye; 

And there's sunshine in my heart. Mamma, which 
wakens and rejoices. 

And so I sing and blush. Mamma, and that 's the rea- 
son why. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



666 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



mfiJILTj knee-deep lies the -ninter snow, 
EJ And the winter winds are A\earily sighing: 
~'^~ Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 

And tread softlj' and speak low, 

For the old year lies a-dying. 



He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he '11 be dead before. 




Old year, you must not die; 
You came to us so readily. 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He -will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the Xe^^■-year will take 'em away. 
Old j'ear, you must not go ; • 
So long as you have been with us. 
Such joy as you have seen with us. 
Old yeai-, you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But, though his eyes are waxing dim, 
And though his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you. 

Old year, if you must die. 



"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow." 

Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold, my friend. 
And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend. 
Comes up to take his own. 



SENTIJVIENT AND KEFLECTION. 



6G7 



How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chiips : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o clock. 

Shake hands before j^ou die. 

Old j'ear, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 




^HAT song is well sung, not of sorrow? 

What triumph well won without pain? 
~?^^ WTiat virtue shall be, and not boiTow 
ij Bright lustre from many a stain? 

What birth has there been without travail? 

What battle well won without blood? 
■ What good shall earth see. without evil 
lugarnered as chaff with the good? 

Lo ! the Ci'oss set in rocks by the Roman, 
And nourished by blood of the Lamb, 

And watered by tears of the woman, 
Has flourished, has spread like a palm; 



-L_3-^to~ 



His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack! our friend is gone. 
Close up his ej'es : tie up his chin : 
Step from the coi'pse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 

Alfred Tenntson. 



HOPE. 



Has spread in the frosts, and far regions 
Of snows in the North, and South sands. 

Where never the tramp of his legions 
Was heard, nor has reached forth his red hands. 

Be thankful ; the price and the payment, 
The birth, the privations and scorn. 

The cross, and the parting of raiment, 
Are finished. The star brought us morn. 

Look starward ; stand far and uuearthy, 

Free-souled as a banner unfurled; 
Be worthy, O brother, be worthy ! 

For a God was the price of the world. 

Joaquin Miller. 



ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE. 



^L AS ! how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love! 
Hearts that the world iu vain has tried. 
And sorrow but more closely tied; 
That stood the storm when waves were roug 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off. 
Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
WTien heaven was all tranquillity! 

A something light as air, — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken, — 
O, love that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has shaken! 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin ; 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone. 



And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, — or like the sti-eam, 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever. 
Yet, ere it i-each the plain below. 

Breaks into floods that part forever. 

O j^ou, that have the charge of Love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound. 
As in the Fields of Bliss above 

He sits, with flowerets fettered round; — 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For even an hour, a minute's flight 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird, — whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, — 

Lose all their glory when he flies ! 

Thomas Moore. 



Ij^pEASON as the princess, dwells in the highest and inwardest room ; the senses are 
Hiy the guards and attendants on the court, without whose aid nothing is admitted 
into the presence ; the supreme faculties are the Peers ; the outward parts and inward 
affections are the Commons. 



668 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUItY. 



BENDEMEER'S STREAM. 



■^ HjEIv e s 



a bower of roses by Bendemeer's 
stream, 
"^^ And the nightingale sings round it all the day 
long; 
In the time of my childhood "t was like a sweet 
di-eam, 

To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 
That bower and its music I never forget, 

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, 
I think — is the nightingale singing there yet? 
Are those roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? 



ISTo, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, 
But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly 
they shone. 
And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave 
All the fragrance of summer, when the summer was 
gone. 
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 
An essence that breathes of it many a j'ear; 
Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes, 
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer 1 

Thomas Moore. 




"And hear the wild dove in the thicket call 
Her loved mate home\vard from the alien sky,' 



AT NIGHT. 



iffiH, hear the waters murmur as they fall, 
, ^. And the sad night-wind whisper her reply ; 
^^ And hear the wild dove in the thicket call 
K Her loved mate homeAvard from the alien sky 



As some tired child's my weary head is lain. 
Upon thj' heart : thy beating heart is warm ! 

I rest deep-sheltered from all grief and pain. 
Within the sacred cincture of thine arm. 

FORCEYTHE WiLLSOS. 



SEISTTBIENT AND KEFLECTION. 



669 



THE LIBRARY. 



sY days among the dead are pass'd; 
Around me 1 behold, 
^7^^ Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
n The mighty minds of old; 

My never-failing friends are they 
With whom I converse night and day. 



My thoughts are with the dead, with them 

I live in long-past years. 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn. 

Partake their griefs and fears ; 
And from their sober lessons find 
Instruction with a humble mind. 








IflJ.i 







"With them I take delight in weal, 
And seek relief in woe." 



With ^hem I take delight in weal, 
A.nd seek relief in woe ; 

And while I understand and feel 
How much to them I owe. 

My cheeks have often been bedewed 

With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 



My hopes are with the dead : anon 

With them my place will be ; 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all futuritj^ ; 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
Which will not perish in the dust. 

Egbert Southey. 



670 



THE GOLDEjN" TKEASUKY. 



THE TOYS. 




|Y little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes. 



And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 
y^ip\ ' HaviDg ray law the seventh time disobeyed, 
H I sti'uck him, and dismissed. 

With hard words and unkissed, — 
His mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed; 
But found him slumbering deep. 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet ; 
And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
For on a table drawn beside his head 
He had put within his reach, 
A box of counters, and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 



And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 
And two French copper coins ranged there with care 

ful art. 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So, when that night I prayed 
To God, I wept and said : 
Ah ! when at last we lie with tranced breath, 
Not vexing Thee in death. 
And thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys. 
How weakly undei-stood 
Thj' great commanded good, — 
Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 
Thou "It leave Thy wrath, and say, 
" I wiU be sorry for their childishness." 

COVENTKY PATMORE. 



..<.o^^oO.» 



MERCY. 



^HE quality of mercy is not strained; 

^ It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

^'ff^ Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed; 

il It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
'T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power 
Th' atti'ibute to awe and majesty, 
"Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, — 



It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an atti'ibute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 

That in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : Ave do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer should teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. 

William Shakespeare. 



BESIDE THE SEA. 



I. 



JhEY walked beside the Summer sea, 
^ And watched the slowly dying sun ; 
And " O,"' she said, "come back to me! 

My love, my own, my only one!" 
But while he kissed her fears away 

The gentle waters kissed the shore, 
And, sadlj' whispering, seemed to say: 
■'He'll come no more! he'll come no more 



II. 



Alone beside the Autumn sea 

She watched the sombre death of day ; 
And " 0," she said, "remember me! 

And love me, darling, far away." 



A cold wind swept the watery gloom. 
And, darkly whispering on the shore, 

Sighed out the secret of his doom. — 

"He'll come no more! he'll come no more!' 



III. 



In peace beside the Winter sea 

A white grave glimmers in the moon ; 
And waves are fresh, and clouds are free, 

And shrill ^\^nds pipe a careless time. 
One sleeps beneath the dark blue wave, 

And one upon the lonely shore ; 
But joined in love, beyond the grave, 

They part no more! they part no more! 

William Winter. 



SENTlllENT AND EEFLECTIOX. 



671 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 



la^lOODMAK, spare that tree ! 
„Siil| Touch not a single bough! 
y^*-^ In youth it sheltered me, 
And I '11 protect it now. 

'T was my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 

There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 



When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing jo}' 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand- 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand ! 







"When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 

In all their gushing- joy 
Here too my sisters played.' 



I 



That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea : 

And would'st thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies ! 



My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I 've a hand to save. 

Thy ax shall harm it not. 

George P. Morris. 



672 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



SMALL BEGINNINGS. 



^ 



T^M TRAVELER through a dusty road strewed He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the 

1^ acorns on the lea, brink, 

^^^ And one took root and sprouted up, and grew He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that 

1- into a ti'ee. toil might drink. 

I Love sought its shade, at evening time, to He pasfeed again, and lo ! the well, bj' summers never 

'' breathe its earl}- vows : dried, 

And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask be- Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved 
neath its boughs ; a life beside. 




" It stood a glory in its place, 
A blessing evermore." 



The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds a dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, 

sweet music bore ; and yet 't was new ; 

It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. ^ simple fancy of the brain, but sti'ong in being 

A little spring had lost its waj' amid the grass and true. 

fern. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light 

A passing stranger scooped a well, whei-e wearj' men became 

might turn ; A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



673 



The thought was small; its issue great ; a watch-fire A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory 

on the hill, breath, — 

It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul fi-om 

still! death. 

, ., 1 .u . .1 1 .u Ogerni! O fount! O word of love! O thought at ran- 

A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the ,^, ^ ^., ^ 

T 4. * 11*^^ ^ ^"^1 ' * TT IT <- T 1 ^ ^^ ^^'^''^ ^^^ little at the first, but mighty at the last. 

Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from " ■' 

the heart; Charles Mackay. 



SONG. 



SPIRIT of the Summer-time! 

Bring back the roses to the dells ; 
The swallow from her distant clime, 

The honey-bee from drowsy cells. 

Bring back the friendship of the sun ; 
The gilded evenings, calm and la'te, 



When merry children homeward run. 
And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 

Bring back the singing; and the scent 
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime; — 

Oh bring again my heart's content. 
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time ! 

William Allingham. 



^ — a/S^-- 




THE RIVER. 



GRANDLY flovring Riverl 

O silver-gliding River ! 

Thy springing willows shiver 

In the sunset as of old ; 
They shiver in the silence 
Of the willow-whitened islands. 
While the sun -bars and the sand-bars 

Fill air and wave with gold. 

O gray, oblivious River! 
O sunset-kindled River! 
Do you remember ever 
The eyes and skies so blue 



On a summer day that shone here, 
When we were all alone here. 
And the blue eyes were too wise 
To speak the love they knew? 

O stern, impassive River! 
O still unanswering River! 
The shivering willows quiver 

As the night-winds moan and rave. 
From the past a voice is calling. 
From heaven a star is falling. 
And dew swells in the bluebells 

Above the hillside grave. 

John Hay. 



HOPE. 



MN hope a king doth go to war, 
«^ In hope a lover lives full long; 
J* In hope a merchant sails full far, 
T In hope just men do suffer wrong; 



In hope the ploughman sows his seed : 
Thus hope helps thousands at their need. 
Then faint not, heart, among the rest; 
Whatever chance, hope thou the best. 

Richard Alison. 



674 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



FIDELITY. 




BAEKIEXG sound the shepherd hears, 

A eiy as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantl.v a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 



It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps till June December's snow; 
A loftj- precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below .' 
Far in the bosom of HelveUyn. 
Eemote from public road or dwelling. 
Pathway, or cultivated land, 
From ti-ace of human foot or hand. 




' The dog had watched about the spot, 
Or by his master's side." 



The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, ai-e wild and shy. 
■\Vith something, as the shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry. 
Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow, or on height; 
Xor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear : 
AVhat is the creature doing here? 



There, sometimes, doth the leaping rtsh 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 

The crag repeats the raven's croak, 
In S}nnphouy austere ; 

Thither tht rainbow comes. — the cloud, - 

And mists that spread the flying shroud; 

And sunbeams, and the sounding blast. 

Tliat, if it could, would hurry past; 

But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 



SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



r>75 



Not free from boding thoughts^, a while 
Tlie shepherd stood; then maizes his 
way 
Towards the dog, o'er roclis and stones, 

As qiiiekly as he may ; 
Not far had gone befoi'e he fonnd 
A human skeleton on the ground I 
Th' appalled discoverer, with a sigh, 
Looks round to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The man had fallen, — that place of fear! 
At length, upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear; 
He instantly recalled the name. 
And who he was. and whence he came ; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveler passed this way. 



But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale 1 tell! 
A lasting UKjuunient of words 

This wonder merits well. 
The dog. which still was hovering nigh. 
Repeating the same timid cry, — 
This dog had been, through three months' 

space, 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain, that since that day. 
When this ill-fated traveler died. 

The dog had watched about the spot, 
Or by his master's side : 

How nourished here, through such long time, 

He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 

And gave that strength of feeling, great 

Above all human estimate. 

William Wordsworth. 



TOWARD HOME. 



^^RIGIIT flag at yonder tapering mast, 
il^' Fling out vour field of azure blue; 
"^'-^p Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
w And point as freedom's eagle flew! 
* Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars! 
My mother, in thj^ prayer to-night 

There come new^ words and warmer tears; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light, 
Comes home the loved, the lost for years. 



Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner! 

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea: 
The ear of heaven bends low to lu r! 

He sails to shore who sails with me. 
The wind-tossed spider needs no token 

How stands the tree when lightnings blaze; 
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 

I know my mother lives and jn'ays. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



LINES. 



^^i^HEN last year the maple bud was swelling, 
'^s*j|k>^ When last the crocus bloomed below. 
^l^i'ijfC i'liy heart to mine its love was telling; 
'?- Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow ; 

Again the maple bud is swelling, 

Again the crocus blooms below : — 
In heaven thy heart its love is telling. 
But still our souls keep ebb and flow. 



When last the April bloom was flinging 

Sweet odors ou the air of spring. 
In forest aisles thy voice was i-inging. 

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing. 
Again the April bloom is flinging 

Sw'eet odors on the air of sjM-ing, 
But now in heaven thy voice is ringing. 

Where thou dost with the angels sing. 

William D. Gallagher. 



A LITTLE AVORD IN KINDNESS SPOKEN. 






LITTLE word in kindness spoken. 

A motion or a tear. 
Has often healed the heart that's broken. 

And made a friend sincere. 

A word, a look, has crushed to earth 
Full manv a budding flower. 



42 



Which, had a smile but owned its birth. 
Would bless life's dai-kest hour. 

Then deem it not an idle thing 

A pleasant word to speak; 
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, 

A heart may heal or break. 

COLESWORTHY. 



676 



THE GOLDEN TEEAStTRY. 




THE WAT TO SING. 



■HE birds must know. Who wisely sings 
AVill sing as tliey. 
-l\^ The couimou air has generous wings : 
Songs make their way. 



No messenger to run before, 

Devising plan; 
No mention of the place, or hour, 

To any man ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear; 
No different voice, no new delays, 

If steps dra\\- near. 

"What bird is that? The song is 
good."' 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood 
In glad surprise. 

Then, late at night, \\hen by 
his fire. 

The traveler sits. 
AVatching the flame grow 
brighter, higher. 

'llie sweet song flits. 
By snatches, through his weary brain. 

To help him rest ; 
When next he goes that road again. 

An emptj^ nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh : 

"Ah me! last spring. 
Just here I heard, in passing by. 
That rare bird sing." 

But while he sighs, remembering 

How sweet the song. 
Tlie little bird, on tireless wing. 

Is borne along 
In other air; and other men. 

With weary feet. 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 

The birds must know.. AVho wisely sings 

Will sing as they. 
The common air has generous wings : 

Songs make their \\ay. 

Hklkn Hint Jacksox (H. H.). 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



G77 



THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. 






I^HE ro.se from her delicious sleep, 
§^^ Aud put away her soft browu hair. 
^"^ '^ Aud in a tone a.s low aud deep 

As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer 
Her snow-white hands together pressed. 

Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, 
The folded linen on her breast 
Just swelling- with the charms it hid. 

Aud from her long and llo\\ ing dress 
Escaped a bare and snowy foot, 

Whose step upon the earth did press 
Like a sweet snow-flake soft and mute ; 

Aud then from slumber chaste and warm. 
Like a young spirit fresh from heaven. 



She bowed that young and matchless form. 
And humbly prayed to be forgiven. 

Oh. God! if souls as pure as these 

Need daily mercy from Thy throue — 
If she upon her bended knee. 

Our holiest and our purest one — 
She with a face so clear and bright 

We deem her some stray child of light ; 
If she, with these soft eyes and tears, 

Da.y after day, in her young years. 
Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, 

How hardly if she win not heaven 

Will our wild errors be forgiven I 

Nathaniel Pakker Willis. 



LIFE. 



III^IFE, believe, is not a dream. 
So dark as sages sa.v ; 
Oft a little moruing rain 

Foretells a pleasant day : 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, 

But these are transient all; 
If the shower \\'ill make the roses bloom, 
Oh, why lament its fall? 

Ra]3idly, merrily, 
Life's suuuy hours flit bj', 
Gratefullj', cheerily. 
Enjoy them as they fly. 



s^(L^ 



What though Death at times steps in, 

Aud calls our Best away? 
What though Sorrow seems to win, 

O'er Hope a heavy sway? 
Yet Hope again elastic springs, 
Unconquered, though she fell; 
Still buoyant are her golden wings. 
Still strong to bear us well. 

Manfidly, fearlessly. 
The day of trial bear. 

For gloriouslJ^ victoriously. 
Cau coin-age quell despair I 

Charlotte Bronte. 



THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. 



^OW little recks it where men lie. 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim nnd glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last. — 
AVliether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest. 
Or in its nakedness return 

Back to its mother's breast ! 

Death is a common friend or foe. 

As different men may hold. 
And at his summons each nmst go. 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and \\arm, 

Deserts it, as it nnist. 
What matters where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust? 

The soldier falls 'mid coi-ses piled 

I''l)on the battle-plain. 
Where reinless \\:\r-steeds galloiJ wild 

Above the gory slain; 



But though his corse be grim to see. 

Hoof-trampled on the sod. 
What recks it, when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to God? 

The coward's dying eyes may close 

Upon his downy bed, 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er them sjiread : 
But ye who shun the bloody fray, 

AVhere fall the mangled brave, 
Go strip his coffin-lid away. 

And see him in his grave ! 

'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes. 

With those we (jherish near, 
And wafted upward by their sighs. 

Soar to some calmer sphere : 
But whether ou the scaffold high. 

Or iu the battle's van. 
The fittest place wher(> man can die 

Is where he dies for man! 

Michael .Jcsepii Barkv. 



G78 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUEY. 



THE DEAD. 



THIXK about the dead by day, 

I dream of them at night : 
They seem to stand beside my chair, 
Clad in the clothes they used to wear, 

And by my bed in white. 

The conimou-places of their lives, 

The li,^htest words they said. 
Revive in me, and give me pain. 



And make me wish them back again. 
Or wish that I were dead. 

I would be kinder to them now. 

Were they alive once more ; 
Would kiss their cheeks and kiss their hau'. 
And love them like the angels there. 

Upon the silent shore. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



-^-^Vi/Zf^^'Z/lru^tr-^- 



CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 



Ip SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea : 
Hi And in their chimney nest. 
'^Ir At night the swallows told home-lore to me. 
1 As to a friendlj^ guest. 

A liquid twitter, low, couflding. glad. 

From many glossj' throats, 
Was all the voice ; and yet its accents had 

A poem"s golden notes. 

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, 

And sounds of festal cheer. 
And tones of those whose tasks of love are o"er. 

Were breathed into mine ear; 

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung. 

The heart's melodious bloom ; 
And histories, whose perfumes long have ciung 

About each hallowed room. 

I heard the dream of lovers, as they found 

At last their hour of bliss. 
And fear and pain, and long suspense were drowned 

In one heart-healing kiss. 

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew 

To sons and daughters fair: 
And childhood's angels, singing as they flew. 

And sobs of secret prayer. 



I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail 
Into the sapphire skj% 



And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, 
As the swift ships went by ; 

And sighs suppressed, and converse soft and low 

About the sufferer's bed, 
And what is uttered when the sti-icken know 

That the dear one is dead. 

And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light. 

Muse with transfigured face ; 
And hot lips pressing through the long, dark night. 

The pillow's emptj^ place. 

And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path 

In youth had gone apart, 
But to each other brought life's aftermath. 

With uncorroded heart. 

Tlie music of the seasons touched the sti-ain, 

Bird-joy and laugh ot flowers. 
The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain. 

Snow-storm and sunny showers; 

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns. 

And gropes in regions dim. 
Till, meeting Christ w ith raptured eye, discerns 

Its perfect life in Him. 



So, thinking of the Master and his tears. 

And how the birds are kept, 
I sank in arms that folded me from fears. 
And like an infant, slept. 

Horatio Xelsox Powers. 
-5^ 



THE FIEST TRYST. 



^EFIIE pulls a rose from her rose-ti-ee. 
jiO: Kissing its soul to him, — 
5 Far over years, far over dreams 
j. And tides of chances dim. 

He plucks from his heart a poem, 
A flower-sweet messen2:er. — 



Far over years, far over dreams. 
Flutters its soul to her. 

These are the world-old lovers. 

Clasped in one twilight's gleam: 
Yet he is but a dream to her, 

And she a poet's dream. 

.TOHX .James Piatt. 



SENTEVIENT AND KEFLECTIOX. 



(J79 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 



|pN eddj'iug course when leaves began to fly, 
1^ And iiutuniii iu her lap the store to strew, 
' As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 
I Through giens untrod, and woods that frowned 
1 ou high, 

Two sleeping nymphs with wcmder mute I spy ! 
And, lo, she 's gone! — in robe of dark-green hue 
'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew. 



For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky; 
In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
Not so her sister. Hark : for onward still, 
With far-heard step she takes her listening way. 
Bounding from rock to i-ock, and hill to hill. 
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockfid plaj" 
With thousand mimic tones the laughing foi-est All I 
Sir Samuel Egekton Brydges. 



EXCELSIOR. 



I|HE shades of night were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed 
^f?^ A youth, who bore, "mid snow and ice, 
J*l A banner with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his ej'e beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue — 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 

"Try not the pass." the old man said : 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

"O stay,"' the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast! " 



A tear stood in his bright blue ej'c. 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night: 
A voice replied far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward. 
The pious monks ot Saint Bernai'd 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried, through the startled air. 
Excelsior ! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound. 
Half buried in the snow w'as found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, hut beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sk_y. serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling stai- — 
Excelsior! 
Henkv Wadsworth Longfellow. 



-5^S' 



FAME. 



^i"iV 



p-HAT shall I do lest life in silence pass? 

And if it do, 
', -^ And never prompt the bray of noisy brass. 

AVTiat needest thou rue? 
Remember, aye the ocean deeps are mute; 

The shallows roar; 
AVorth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit 

.\long the shore. 

Wliat shall T do to be forever known? — 
Thy duty ever. 



This did full many who yet slept unknown. 

Oh ! never, never ! 
Thinkest thou, perchance, that they remain unknown 

■Wliom tliou knowest not? 
By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown, — 

Divine their lot! 

What shall I do to gain eternal life? 

Discharge aright ' 
The simple dues with which each day is rife ! 

Yea, with thy might! 

From the German of Schiller. 



680 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



LOCKSLEY HALL.- 



ijSOjVrRADES, leave me here a little, while a.-; .vet 
^^ "tis early morn ; 

''' [-i'^ Leave ine here, and when yuu want me. sound 
j upon the bugle-hoi-n. 

"Tis the place, and all around it, a.< of old. the eur- 
]e-\v.s call, 

Dreary gleams about the moorland tlyiug over Looks- 
ley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy 

tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from vouder ivied casement, ere 1 went 

to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 

west. 



In the spring a fuller crimson conies upon the robin's 

breast ; 
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another 

crest : 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished 

dove : 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 

thoughts of love. 

Theu her cheek was pale aod thinner than should be 
for one so 3-oung, 

Aud her eyes on all my motions with a mute obser- 
vance hung. 

Aud I said, •• My cousin Aiuy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to 

thee." 




A^"? ^^^ turned — her bosom shaken ^vith a sudden storm of sighs — 

AU the spirit deeply dawming in the dark of hazel eyes—" 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a 

mellow shade. lio-ht 

Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver As I have seen the rosvrod flushing in the northern 

braid. „i^l,^_ 

Here about the beach I wandered, nonrisliing a youth And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sudden 

sublime stomi of sighs - 

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of All the spirit deeplv dawning in the dark of liazel 

Time ; p^.p^ _ 

AMien the centuries beluud me like a fruitful laud Saying. '• T have hid my feelings, fearing they should 

reposed: ^j,, ,|,p wrong;"' 

"VVHieu I clung to all the present for the promise that Raying, '• Dost thou love me. cousin? - weeping. "I 

it closed : j^jjyp loved thee long." 

When I dipt into the future far as human e^e could Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his 

•*^*^' glowing hands; 

Saw the Vision of the ^\•orld. and all the wonder that Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

would be. sands. 



SENTIMENT AND liEFI.ECTION. 6HI 

Love took up the harp of Life, aud i^inote on all the Cursed be the social wauls that siu against the strength 

chords with might; of j-outh! 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in Cursed ])e the social lies that warp us from the living 

music out of sight. truth I 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the Cursed be the sicklj' forms that err from honest 

copses ring. Nature's rule I 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead 

of the spring. of the fool ! 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the Well ^ 'tis well that 1 should bluster! — Hadst thou 

stately ships, less unworthy proved — 

And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the 'Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 

• lips. wife was loved. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but 

more ! bitter fruit? 

O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the bai-ren, barren I will i)luek it from my bosom, though my heart be at 

shore ! the root. 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs Never, though my mortal summers to such length of 

have sung, years should come 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish As the many- wintered crow that leads the clanging 

tongue! rookery home. 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — AV'here is comfort? in division of the records of the 

to decline mind? 

On a range of lower feelings and a narrowei' heai't Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 

than mine! her, kind? 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level daj' by I remember one that i)erished : sweetly did she speak 

day, and move : 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

Avith clay. love. 

As the husband is the wife is : thou art mated with a Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love 

clown, she bore? 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to Xo — she never loved me truly, love is love forever- 
drag thee down. more. 

He will hold thee, when his ])assiou shall have spent Comfort! comfort scorned of devils! this is truth the 

its novel force, poet sings. 

Some better than his dog, a little dearer than his That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

horse. happier things. 

AVliat is this? his e.yes are heavy: think not they are Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy h(>art 

glazed with wine. be put to proof. 

Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in in the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on 

thine. the roof. 

It ni;iy be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- jjke a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring 

wrought; at the wall, 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows 

lighter thought. rise and fall. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

stand — drunken sleep. 

Better thou wei-t dead before me, though I slew thee To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

with my hand ! thou wilt weep. 

Better thou and I w^^re lying, hidden from the heart's Thou shalt hear the "Never, never.'' whis]KM-ed by 

disgrace, the phantom years. 

Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last And a song from out the distance in the ringing of 

embrace. thine ears; 



b 



682 THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 

Aud au eye shall vex thee, looking aucieiit kiiidiie.ss Yearniug for the large excitement that the coming 

on thj' pain. ■ j-ears would yield. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his fa th- 

rest again. er"s field. 

Nay, but Xature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice And at night along the dusky highway near and 

will cry. nearer drawn, 

'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain th.v trouble Sees in Heaven the light of London fiaring like a 

dry. dreary da^\"n ; 

Bab}' lips will laugh me down : m^- latest rival brings And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 

thee rest. then. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs 

mother's breast. of men; 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not Men, nij' brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

his due. something new: 

Half is thine aud half is his: it will be worthy of the That which thej" have done but earnest of the things 

two. that thej' shall do ; 

O, I see thee old aud formal, fitted to thy petty part. I"'or I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

With a little hoard of nuixims preaching 'do^^ n a «aw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 

daughter's heart. ' would be; 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she her- «'^w the heavens fill with conmierce. argosies of magic 

self was not exempt — sads. 

Truly, she herself had suffered ■■—Perish in thy self- Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

contempt! costly bales: 

Overlive it— lower yet — be happy! wherefore should Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained 

■ I care"? '^ ghastly dew 

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by de- Fi'om the uations" airy navies grappling in the central 

spair. l'l"i^ ; 

■\\liat is that a\ hii-h I sliould tni-n to, lighting upon Far along the \\orld-\\ ide whisper of the south-wind 

days like these? rushing warm. 

Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to With the standards of the peoples plunging through 

golden kej-s. the thunder-storm; 

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the uuu-kets Till the war-drum throbbed uo longer, aud the battle- 
overflow, flags Mere furled 

I have but au angry fancy : what is that which I should ju the Parliament of man. the Federation of the 

do"? world. 

I had been content to jjerish. falling on the focman's There the common sense of uu)st shall hold a fretful 

gi'onntl, realm in awe. 

When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 

are laid with sound. law. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that so I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through me 

Honor feels. left me dry, 

And the nations do but nnu-nuu-. snarling at each Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the 

other's heels. jaundiced eye : 

Can I but relive in sadness'? I will tuin that earlier jrye, to which all order festers, all things here are out 

P:^ge. of joint. 

Hide me from my deep emotion. O thou wondrous Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from 

Mother-age ! point to point ; 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I fell before the Slowly comes a himgry people, as a lion, creeping 

strife, nigher. 

Allien I heard my days before nu;. aud the tumult of Glares atone that nods and winks behind a slowly 

niv life: dvina: fire. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



(j«3 



Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing pur- Droops the heavy-blossomed bovver, hangs the heavy- 
pose runs, fruited tree — 

And the thoughts of men are widened with the process Summer isles of Eden l3'iug in dai'k-purple si)heres of 
of the suns. sea. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youth- 
ful joys, 

Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like 
a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger 

on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more 

and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears 

a laden breast, 
Pull of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of 

his rest. 



There methinks would be enjoyment moi'e than in 

this march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that 

shake mankind. 

There the passions cramped no longer shall have 

scope and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they 

shall run. 
Catch the wild-goat hy the hair, and hurl their lances 

in the sun; 



Hark, mj- mei'ry comrades call me, sounding on the 

bugle-horn. 

They to whom my foolish passion were a target for Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows 

their scorn : of the brooks. 

Not with blinded cj-esight poring over miserable 
Shall it not be scorn to me to hari) on such a mouldered books 

string? 

I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so yooI, again the dream of fancy ! but I know mv words 

slight a thing. ^i-p ^^.jij^ 

But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Chris- 
tian child. 



AVeakness to be wroth with weakness, woman's pleas- 
ure, woman's pain — 

Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shal- 
lower brain : 



I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glori- 
ous gains. 
Woman is the lesser man, and all thj^ passions matched Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

with mine, lower pains! 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 



Here at least, where nature sickens nothing. Ah. for 

some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 

to beat; 

AVhere in wild Mahi-atta-battle fell my father evil- 
starred : — 

T was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away. 
On fronr island unto island at the gateways of the 

dav. 



Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or 

clime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost tiles of 

time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by 

one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward 

let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing 

gfrooves of chan2:e. 



Lnrger constellations burning mellow moons and through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 

happy skies, lounger dav: 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots -q^^^^^. fift^/^ears of Europe thai, a cvcle of ( 'athay. 

of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never lloats an European Mother-age (for mine T knew not), help me as when 

flag. life begun : 

Slides the bird o'er lusti'ous woodland, swings the Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings. 

trailer from the crag; weigh the sun — 



6iS4 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not Comes a vapor from the margin, blackeuiiig over 

set. heath and holt, 

Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fan- Craunning aU the blast before it, in its breast a thun- 

^y yet. derbolt. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farew^ell to Locks- Let it fall on Loeksley Hall, with rain or hail, or lire 

ley Hall! or snow; 

Xow for me the woods may wither, now for me the Yov the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I 

roof-tree fall. go. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

i_tS-7-.(r-e_, 




' Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade." 



,'^i:}?-^ 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 



^Q^E distant spires, ye antique towers, 



gjy a; 'I'hat cro\\ 11 the watery glade, 
'fr^ ^Vhere grateful Science still adores 
^ Her Henry's holy shade; 

And ye that from the stately brow 
Of "Windsor's heights the exjianse below 
Of grove, of lawn, of mead snn'cy, 
Whose tnrf. whose .«liade. mIiosp flowers among 
Wanders the hoary 'i'hames along 
His silver-windiiic: wav: 



Ah, happj' hills ! ah pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A sti-anger yet to i)ain! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
My weary sonl they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second sjjring. 



SENTIMENT AND KEFLEC'TION. 



685 



Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly raee 
Disporting on thy niargent green, 

The paths of i^leasure ti'aee ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the llyiug hall? 

While some on earnest husiuess bent 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that biiug constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry: 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health oi ]'0S3' hue. 
Wild wit. invention ever new. 

And lively cheer of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day. the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas I regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play; 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 

And black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah. show them where in ambush stand. 
To seize their prey, the murderous band! 

Ah, tell them they are men! 



These shall the fury Passions tear. 

The vultures of the mind. 
Disdainful Anger, i^allid Fear, 

.Vnd Shame that skulks behind; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth. 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth. 

That inlj' gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall tiy. 
And hard Uukindness' altered ej-e. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That ever}' laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men. 

Condemned alike to groan : 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy theii- paradise. 
No more : where ignorance is bliss, 

"Tis folly to be wise. 

Thomas Gray. 



UPON THE BEACH. 



I^Y life is'like a stroll upon the beach. 

As near the ocean's edge as I can go; 
frvfiJ;., "^ ]My tardy steps the waves sometimes o'eri'oach, 
- Sometimes I staj^ to let them overflow. 

My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care, 
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare. 
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 



I have but few companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse. 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view ; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. 
Henry David Tiioreau. 



68(5 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 





SOEEOW FOE THE DEAD. 



HE sorrow for the dead is the onlj' sorrow from which we refuse to be 
divorced. Everj^ other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction 
to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open ; 
this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the 
mother who would Millingly forget the infant that perished like a 
blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? 
"Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of 
parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the 
hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? 
Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he 
most loved — ^ when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
closing of its portals — would accept of consolation that must be 
bought by f orgetf ulness ? 

Xo, the love which sur^^ves the tomb is one of the noblest 
attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when 
the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when 
the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the 2:)resent ruins of all that Ave 
most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days 
of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it 
may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a 
deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the 
song of pleasure, or the burst of revehy? 

No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remem- 
brance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. Oh, 
the grave I the grave I It buries ever}^ error, covers ever}' defect, extinguishes eveiy 
resentment I From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender 
recollections. AVho can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel 
a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of 
earth that lies mouldering before him? 

But the grave of those we loved, — what a place for meditation I There it is 
that we call up in long review the whole history' of virtue and gentleness, and the 
thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of 
intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tender- 
ness of the partino; scene ; the bed of death, with all its stifled fj-riefs, its noiseless 
attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love I the 
feeble, fluttering, thrilling. — oh, how thrilling I — pressure of the hand! The faint, 
faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection I The 
last fond look of the glazing eye. turning upon us even from the threshold of 
existence I Ay, go to the grave of Ijuried love and meditate. There settle the 
account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endear- 
ment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



687 



If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a fuiTOw to 
the silvered brow of an affectionate parent ; if thou art a husband, and hast ever 
caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt 
one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever 
wronged, in thought, or 
word, or deed, the si)irit 
that generously confided 
in thee ; if thou art a 
lover, and hast ever given 
one unmerited pang to 
that true heart that now 
lies cold and still be- 
neath thy feet ; — then be 
sure that every unkind 
look, every ungracious 
word, every ungentle ac- 
tion, will come thronging 
back upon thy memory, 
and knock dolefully at 
thy soul ; then be sure 
that thou wilt lie down 
sorrowing and repentant 
in the grave, and utter 
the unheard groan, and 
pour the unavailing tear, 
more deep, more bitter, 
because unheard and un- 
availing. 

Then weave thy chap- 
let of flowers, and strew 
the beauties of nature 
about the grave ; console 
thy broken spirit, if thou 
canst, with these tender, 
yet futile tributes of re- 




'The grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation.'' 



gret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, 
and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to 



the living 



Washington Irving. 



-l!-^(?.-^ 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 



^^ING again the song you sung 
AVlien we were together young, 
[ ' "iMien there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 



Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though I know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song j^ou sung 
When we were together j^oung. 

George William Citktis. 



688 



THE GOLDEjS^ TEEASUEY. 



SATISFIED. 



^IFE is uiiutterablj" dear, 

God makes to-day so fair: 
Though Heaveu is better, — beiug here 
I long uot to be there. 

The weights of life are pressing still. 
Xot one of them mav fall : 



Yet such strong joys my spirit fill. 
That I can bear them all. 

Though Care and Grief are at my side, 

There would I let them stay. 
And still be ever satisfied 

With beautiful To-day I 

Charlotte Fiske Bates. 



THINK OF ME. 



f?I^O where the water glideth gently ever. 
!©(' Glideth through meadows that the greenest be ; 
A Go. listen our own beloved river. 
* Aud think of me. 



And when the sky is silver-pale at even, 

And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree. 
Walk out beneath the solitary heaven. 

Aud think of me. 




'Go where the water glideth gently ever, 
Glideth through meadows that the greenest be.' 



Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth 

Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree; 
List to the dim brook piuiug as it playeth, 

Aud think of me. 



And when the moou riseth as she were dreaming. 

And treadeth with white feet the luUed sea. 
Go silent as a star beneath her beaming, 

And think of me. 
John Hamilton Keynolds. 



ASHES OF ROSES. 



^^OFT on the ?unset sky 
|«^; Bris^ht davlisrht closes. 
^;j^ Leaving wheu light doth die, 
* Pale hues that mingling lie — 
Ashes of roses. 



S\Tien love's warm sun is set. 

Love's brightness closes; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 

Ashes of roses. 

Elaine Goodalb. 



SENTIJMENT i\JSD REFLECTION. 



Obit 



FOREVER. 



|Elp|HOSE we love truly never die, 
^^ Thouffh year by year the 



year by year the sad memorial wi-eatti, 
A ring- and flowers, types of life and death, 
Are laid upon their graves. 



For death the pure life saves. 
And life all pure is love; and love can reach 
From heaven td earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend lie has whose face will never chanfje — 



A dear communion that will not grow sti-ange; 
The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears, 

She 's thine uutu the end. 



Thank God for one dear friend. 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth. 

Through twenty years of death. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 




FTH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 



I've heard bells tolling 
'• Old Adrian's Mole '' in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious. 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous tui-rets 

Of Notre Dame; 



On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander. 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



But the sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Petei- 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
O, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
AVhile at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memorJ^ dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Sliandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The ])leasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



There 's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Tur iman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer. 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More deal- to me. — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon. 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis JMahony (Father I'ront). 



(3 90 



THE GOLDEN TREAStTRY. 



HEARTS THAT HUNGER. 



?OME hearts go hungering through the world. 

And never And the love they seek; 
Some lips with pride or scorn are curled, 

To hide the pain they may not siieak ; 
The eyii may flash, the mouth maj^ smile, 

The voice in gladdest music thrill, 
And yet beneath them all the while, 

The hungry heart be pining still. 



O eager eyes which gaze afar ! 

O arms which clasp the empty air. 
Not all unmarked j-our sorrows are, 

Not all unpitied your despair. 
Smile, patient lips, so proudly dumb ; 

When life's frail tent at last is furled, 
iTour glorious recompense shall come. 

O hearts that hunger through the world ! 




*t^ -- 

sit, JS i*' ^W' 




"I saw two clouds at morning 
Tinged with the rising sun." 

I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING. 



SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged with the rising sun, 
And in the dawn thej' floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 
Flow smoothly to their meeting, 

And join their course, with silent force. 
In peace each other greeting; 



Calm was their course through banks of green. 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
Like summer's beam and sunnner's stream. 

Float on in joy to meet 
A calmer sea where storms shall cease, 
A purer sky where all is peace. 

John G. C. Buainaku. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



691 



SELF-DEPENDENCE. 



iEAEY of myself, aiid sick of asking 
P^^ What I am and what I ought to be, 
^^^ At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
■^ Forward, forward, o'er the star-lit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send . 

"Ye who from my childhood have calmed me, 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters. 
On my heart your mighty charm renew, 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you! " 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
In the rustling night-air came the ans\\-er: 
"Would'st thou he as these are? Live as thev. 



"Unaffrighted hj the silence round them, 
Undisturbed by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sj'uipathy. 

"And with joy the stars perform their shining. 
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll, 
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded b}^ themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works maj^ be. 
On their own tasks all their jjowers pouj'ing, 
These attain the mighty life you see.'" 

O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in my own heart I hear: 
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery!" 

Matthew Arnold. 



DATS OF MY YOUTH. 



IjllAYS of my youth, ye have glided awaj^ . 
«Jb^ Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray : 

TEyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more : 
Cheeks of m}^ youth, ye are furrowed all o'er: 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone : 
Thoughts of my youth, j'our gay visions are 
flown. 

Day of my youth, I wish not your recall : 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall : 
Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen : 



Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have been: 
Thoughts of my j^outh, you have led me astray: 
Strength of my youth, why lament your decay? 

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past: 
Pains of my age, yet awhile you can last: 
Joys of my age, in true ^\■isdom delight : 
Eyes of my age, be religion your light: 
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod : 
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 

St. George Tucker. 



^-3<«- 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



gHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to min'? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We '11 take a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae rin about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
Frae mornin' sun till dine; 
43 



But seas between us braid hae roared 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier. 

And gie 's a hand o' thine; 
And we '11 take a right guid willie-waught 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine; 
And we "11 take a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne. etc. 

Robert Burns. 



692 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



LAZY. 




HAEIMLESS fellow, wasting useless days, 
Am I; I love my comfort and my leisure; 
Let those who wish them toil for gold and 

praise ; 
To me the summer day brings more of pleasure. 

So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease. 
While solemn voices from the past are calling, 

Mingled with rustling ^^-hispers in the trees. 
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 



There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought 
To malce a name, a home, a bright existence, 

But time has shown me that my dreams are 
naught. 
Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. 

Well, it is gone : I care no longer now 
For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; 

Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, 
I "11 lie forever here among the daisies. 




< So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease.' 



There was a time when I had higher aims 
Than thus to lie among the flowers and listen 

To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames 
On the broad river^s surface glow and glisten. 



--«^^ 



--eXT^ 



So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by, 

With you I surely cannot think to quarrel; 
Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, 
And spare me both the labor and the laurel ! 

George Arnold. 
4- 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 




^E have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade, 
Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together. 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been gay together. 
We have laughed at little jests; 

For the fount of hoi)e was gushing 
Warm and joyous in our breasts. 



But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together,— 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been sad together, — 

We have wept with bitter tears 
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which were silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow; 
We have been sad together, — 

O, what shall part us now? 
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 



SE:NTljVlEi^T AJSTD EEFLECTIOJST. 



093 



ALONE BY THE BAY 



l|^l|E is gone, O my heart, he is gone ; 
^H And the sea remains, and the sky; 
^ijj And the skiffs flit in and out; 
W And the white-winged yachts go by. 

And the waves run purple and green, 
And the sunshine glints and glows. 

And freshly across the Bay 
The breath of the morning blows. 



I liked it better last night, 

When the dark .sJnit down on the main, 
Aud the phantom fleet lay still, 

And I heard the waves complain. 

For the sadness that dwells in my heart. 
And the rune of their endless woe. 

Their longing and void and despair, 
Kept time in their ebb and flow. 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 



THE JOYS OF MEMOEY. 



|||||HEE.E are recollections as pleasant as they are sacred and eternal. There are words 
^P^ and faces and places that never lose their hold upon the heart. They may be words 
'^T'^ that we seldom hear amid the whirl of life ; faces that we may never see on earth 
K again ; places that we are but seldom permitted to re-visit ; but they were once the 
scenes, the associates, the joy of our life; they had a controlling influence in training our 
aspirations and in shaping our destinies, and they can never be wholly forgotten. The 
flight of years cannot sully their innocence, nor diminish their interest, and eternity will 
preserve them among the dearest reminiscences of earth. We may meet and love other 
faces, we may treasure other words, we may have other joys, we may mingle in other 
scenes and form other associations, but these old familiar faces, and these dear old familiar 
scenes, remain invested with a fadeless beauty, sacred in their exemption from oblivion and 
decay. 

Our youthful troubles and their sources are soon forgotten, btit the objects of beauty 
which gladden the early life never cease to yield us delight. They become stars in the* 
Armament of youth, lighting up the pathway of the past, and when in later years the night 
of sorrow gathers round the soul, memory, like the astronomer's tube, piercing the sur- 
rounding gloom, sweeps that distant sky, and reveals those stars still shining with undimin- 
ished lustre. The heart renews its youth, and the whole man is cheered and invigorated by 
the contemplation of those things of beauty that were the delight of earlier days. 

Henry A. Walker. 



-fSS— s==- 



THE MEETING WATERS. 



»WlOSE beside the meeting waters, 
'^^. Long T stood as in a dream 
'■^ Watching how the little river 
^ Fell into the broader stream. 

Calm and still the mingled current 
Glided to the waiting sea ; 

On its breast serenely pictured 
Floating cloud and skirting tree. 



And I thought: " O human spirit. 

Strong, and deep and pure and blest 
Let the stream of my existence 

Blend with thine, and find its rest! " 

I could die, as dies the river 

In that current deep and wide; 
I would live, as lives its waters. 

Flashing from a stronger tide! 

Elizabeth H. Whtttier. 



694 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUKY. 



A NAME IN THE SAND 



^^|LONE 1 walked the ocean strand, 



j5gyay| A pearly shell was in my hand : 
^^ I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
I" My name, the 5'ear and day : — 
I As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast, — 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 
And washed my line awaj'. 

And so, me thought, 't will quickly be 
AVith every mark on earth with me: 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
Will sweep across the place 



VVTiere I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been to be no more — 
Of me, my day, the name I bore, 
To leave no track or trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sauds, 
And holds the water in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name. 
Of all this mortal part has \\'rought. 
Of all this thinking soul has thought, 
And from these Heetiug moments caught. 

For glory or for shame. 

George D. Prentice. 




'And I thought of the trees under which we had strayed.' 



ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD. 

Iptt^OTsTG years have elapsed since I gazed on the I thought of the green banks, that circled around, 

ft'SM. scene. With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine 

^t'^ Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of crowned. 

^ green.— I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

°i The spot where, a school-boy. all thoughtless I As the face of the skn,' on a blue summer night : 
I strayed 

By the side of tlie stream, in the gloom of the shade. And T thought of the trees, under which we had 

strayed. 

I thoughtof the friends who had roamed with me there. Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of 
When the sky was so blue and the flowers were so shade; 

fair. And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 

All scattered— all sundered by mountain and wave, Of the names and the carvings, impressed on the 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave! rind. 



SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



695 



All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, 
Rendered sacred and dear hy the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, iny eye should ex- 
plore 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'T was a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, 
"Like a tale that is told"— they had vanished away. 



Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above, 
Had all tied from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart : — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart! 
Our visions are baseless, — our hopes but a gleam, — 
Our staff but a reed, — and our life but a dream. 

Then, 0, let us look — let oui- prospects allure — 
To scenes that can fade not to realms that endure, 




"I thought of the river all quiet aiul bright." 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along, To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 

Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time. 

Lia-v.cr-E-^ 



MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN. 



|HREE words fall sweetlj' on my soul 

As music from an angel lyre. 
That bid my spirit spurn control 

And upward to its source aspire ; 
The sweetest soimds to mortals given 
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. 

Dear Mother! ne'er shall I forget 
Thy brow, thine ej'e, thy pleasant smile ! 

Though in the sea of death hath set 
Thy star of life, my guide awhile. 

Oh, never shall thy form depart 

From the bright pictures in my heart. 



And like a bird that from the flowers, 
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest, 

My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours. 
Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; 

The cottage, garden, hill and stream, 

Still linger like a pleasant dream. 

And while to one engulfing grave. 
By time's swift tide we "re driven. 

How sweet the thought that every wave 
But bears us nearer Heaven ! 

There we shall meet when life is o'er, 
In that blest Home, to part no more. 

William Goldsmith Brcwtn. 



GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AG-AIN. 



PgHEN give me back that time of pleasures. 
b While yet in joyous growth I sang, — 
JL When, like a fount, the crowding measures 
* Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! 

Then bright mist veiled the world before me. 
In opening buds a mai-vel woke. 
As I the thousand blossoms broke 
'Which eveiy valley richly bore me! 



I nothing had, and yet enough for youth — 
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 

Give unrestrained the old emotion. 
The bliss that touched the verge of pain, 
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion, — 
O, give me back my youth again ! 

Bayard Taylor. 

(From the German of Goethe.") 



696 



TFIE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



AT LAST. 



STOODbesidemy window one stonily winter day, From out the sell-same window, when soft spring 

And watched the light white snow-flakes flutter daj's were come, 

past ; I watched the fair white clouds that sailed the blue ; 

And I saw, though each one wandered its silent, Could those bright pearly wonders far up in heaven's 

separate \\ay. high dome 

. Be the old wintry snow-banks that I knew? 

■^ ■'^'^" " So men shall one day rise again," 

I whispered, ''too." 

Caroline Leslie. 




" 'So men must lie down, too,' I said, 
' ^Vhen life is past.' " 

They all sank down upon the ground at last. 
" So men nuist lie down, too," I said, 
"When life is past." 



WAITING. 

WALK in sadness and alone 

Beside Time's flowing river; 
Their steps I trace upon tlie sand 
Who wandered with me hand in hand, 

But now are gone forever. 

Upon that river, dark and deep 

My boat will soon be tossing; 
By eai th-sounds growing faint and low. 
By mists that blind ni}"^ eyes, I know 

I must be near the ci'ossing. 

And so I walk with silent tread 

Beside Time's flowing river. 
And wait the j)lashing of the oar 
That bears me to the Summer Shoi-e, 

To be with friends forever. 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



THE BOOK OF JOB. 



^1^ CALL that, the Book of Job, aside from all theories about it, one of the grandest 
^f^ things ever written with pen. One feels, indeed, as if it were not Hebrew; such a 
Jk noble universality, different from noble patriotism or sectarianism, reigns in it. A 
* noble book I all men's book ! It is our first, oldest statement of the never-ending 
problem — man's destiny — and God's way with him here in this earth. And all in such free, 
flowing outlines; grand in its sincerity, in its simplicity; 'in its epic melody, and repose of 
reconcilement. There is the seeing eye, the mildly understanding heart. So true every 
way; true eyesight and vision for all things: material things no less than spiritual ; the 
horse — "hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? — he ''laughs at the shaking of the 
spear ! " Such living likenesses were never since drawn. Sublime sorrow, sublime recon- 
ciliation; oldest choral melody as of the heart of mankind; so soft and great; as the sum- 
mer midnight, as the world with its seas and stars ! There is nothing written, I think, in 
the Bible or out of it, of equal literary merit. 

Thoimas Carlyle. 



SENTIMENT AND EEFLECTION. 



697 



MORTALITY. 



j^^H, why should the spirit of mortal he proud? 
2^P Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
^§^ A flash of the lightning, a hreak of the wave, 
J4 He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade. 
Be scattered around and together he laid; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The child that a mother attended and loved, 
'ITie mother that infant's affection that proved, 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed. 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye. 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and 

praised , 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath %\'orn. 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Ai"e hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 



The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to 

steep. 
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread. 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the comnuinion of heaven, 
ITie sinner that dared to remain unforgiven. 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 



the 



So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, 
That wither away to let others succeed; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers have seeu, — 
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, 
And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; 
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would 

shrink; 
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may 

come; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. 

They died, — ay ! they died : and we things that are 

now, 
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage i-oad. 

Yea! hope and despondenc}'. pleasure and pain. 
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; 
And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
Oh, whj' should the spirit of mortal be proud? 

William Knox. 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 



^fFT in the stilly night, 
^>-f.' Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
' '' Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The e.yes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful heai-ts now broken. 
Thus in the stilly night. 

Ere slumbei-'s chain has bound me. 
Sad iSlemory l)rings the light 
Of other days ai'ound me. 



When I remember all 

The frieuds so linked together 
I 've seen around me fall. 
Like leaves in wintiy weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he dei)arted. 
Thus in the stilly night. 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 



698 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 



irER waves that murmur ever nigh 
§ My Mindow, opeuing toward the deep, 
The light-house, with its wakeful ej'e. 
Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep. 



Forever there, and still the same; 

While many more besides me mark 
On various course, with various aim, 

That light that shineth in the dark. 




'''"WlMIVIi'-fS/J!'!''' 



"The light-house, with its wakeful eye, 
Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep." 



I lose myself in idle dreams. 

And wake in smiles or sighs or fright, 
According to my vision's themes, 

And see it shining in the night. 



-LE3-^(r-e^ 



It draws my heart towards those who roam 
Unknown, nor to be known b}' me; 

I see it, and am glad at home, 
They see it, and are safe at sea. 

Sarah Hammond Palfrey. 



AT BEST. 



I^HE faithful helm commands the keel. 
From port to port fair breezes blow; 
But the ship must sail the convex sea, 
Xor may she straighter go. 

So. man to man ; in fair accord. 
On thought and will the winds may wait; 



But the world will bend the passing word, 
Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be ; 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



SENTBIENT AND REFLECTION. 



699 



BY THE AUTUMN SEA. 



IaTR as the dawn of the fairest day, 
Sad as the evening's tender gray, 
By the latest lustre of sunset kissed, 
. That wavers and wanes through an amber 

mist — 
There cometh a dream of the past to me, 
On the desert sands, by the autumn sea. 



That shine with an angel's ruth on me, — 
A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 

The wmgs of the ghostly beach-birds gleuni 
Through the shimmering surf, and the cmiew's scream 
Falls faintly shrill from the darkening height. 
The first weird sigh on the lips of Night 




"All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil 
And the face of the ocean is dim and pale." 



All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil. 
And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, 
And there rises a wind from the chill northwest, 
That seemeth the wail of a souTs unrest, 
As the twilight falls, and the vapors flee 
Far over the wastes of the autumn sea. 

A single ship through the gloaming glides. 
Upborne on the swell of the seaward tides; 
And above the gleam of her topmost spar 
Are the virgin eyes of the vesper star 



Breathes low through the sedge and the blasted tree, 
With a murmur of doom, by the autumn sea. 

Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning main. 
Your gloom but deepens this human pain ; 
Those waves seem big with a nameless care. 
That sky is a type of the heart's despair, 
As I linger and muse by the sombre lea, 
And the night-shades close on the autumn sea. 

Paul Hamilton Hatne. 



..0.-:^^.0., 



TAKE HEAKT. 



^sLL day the stormy wind has blown 
From off the dark and rainy sea ; 
'^W^ No bird has past the window flown, 
J-t The only song has been the moan 

The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time: 

She died when dropped the earliest leaves; 
And. cold upon her rosy prime, 
Fell down the antunni's frosty rime; 
Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 



For well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The Maj'-flowers sleep in fragrant ease. 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 

Beside some golden summer's bier, — 
Take heait! Thy birds are onlj^ flown. 
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown. 
To greet thee in the immortal year! 

Edna Dean Proctor. 



700 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



TIME BOLLS HIS CEASELESS COURSE. 



||P|rME rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore 
^^ Who dauced our infanc}' upon their kuee, 
'''ff^ And told our niarveliug boj'hood legends store 
j>l Of thei)- strange ventures happ'd b}- laud or 

sea, 
How are they blotted from the things that be! 



How few, all weak and withered of their force, 

Wait, on the verge of dark eternity. 
Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, 
To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his cease- 
less com-se. 

Sir Walter Scott. 




' When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee." 



WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. 




PHEN stars are in the quiet skies, 

ITieu most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes. 

As stars look on the sea. 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by nigat, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men. 
When coarser souls are Avrapped in sleep. 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ; 



There is an hour when holj'^ dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide. 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou should'st be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 
For daylight's common beam : 
I can but know thee as my star. 

My angel and my dream! 
"\ATien stars are in the quiet skies. 

Then most I pine for thee; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes. 

As stars look on tlie sea. 

EuWARD BULAVER LVTTON. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



701 



DREAMERS. 



^|h, there be souls none understand, 

Like clouds, they cannot touch the land, 
7(f^C Drive as they may by field or town. 
j-l Then we look wise at this, and frown, 

And we cry '"Fool! " and cry "Take hold 
Of earth, and fashion gods of gold! " 

Unanchored ships, that blow and blow, 

Sail to and fro, and then go down 

In unknown seas that none shall know. 



Without one ripple of renown; 
Poor drifting dreamers, sailing by. 
That seem to only live to die. 

Call these not fools ; the test of worth 
Is not the hold you have of earth; 
Lo, there be gentlest souls, sea blown. 
That know not any harbor known; 
And it may be the reason is 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 

Joaquin Miller. 



-ff-^S-'S- 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 



||0 you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the 
^4 dove. 

The linnet, and thrush say " I love, and I love ! " 
In the winter they 're silent, the wind is so 
strong ; 
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 

weather. 
And singing and loving — all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above. 
That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, 
" I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




" Do you ask what the birds say? 



INDIRECTION. 



ik 



^AIR are the flowers and the children, but their Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feel- 

%% subtle suggestion is fairer ; ing; 

;;; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns 

*!»'' clasps it is rarer; the revealing. 

Sweet the exultance of soner, but the strain that . , ,,,.,. 

precedes it is sweetert <^'-'^^^* ''^'•<^ the symbols of bemg, but that which is sym- 

And never was poem vet writ, but the meaning holed is gi eater, , ^, . , 

Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward cre- 



out-mastered the metre. 



ator; 



Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift 

growing ; stands the giving ; 

Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres the Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive 

flowing; nerves of receiving. 

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than , , ^ . ^ t . 

he did enfold him; Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by 

Nor never a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer the doing; 

hath foretold him. The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart 

of the wooing ; 

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from 

and hidden ; the lieights where those shine. 

Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the es- 
is bidden; senoe of life is divine. 

Richard Realf. 



702 



THE GOJ.DEN TREASUEY. 



THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW 




AND is the Swallow gone? 
Who beheld it? 
~-^ir¥^ AVTiich way sailed it? 
* Farewell bade it none? 



^Vhither? wherefore doth it go? 

"Tis all unknown; 

We feel alone 
That a void is left below. 

William Howitt. 




No mortal saw it go ; _ 

But who doth hear 

Its summer cheer 
As it flitteth to and fro? 

So the freed spirit flies ! 

From the surrounding clay 

It steals away 
Like the swallows from the skies 



sg—^s 



A FAREWELL. 



^^Y fairest child. I have no song to give you ; 
^^ -^^ ^^^'^ could pipe to skies so dull and gray 
/i^\" Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave j^ou 
j^ For every day. 



Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever, 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingslet. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



703 




THE TWO ROADS. 



T was New Year's night. 



An aged man was standing at a window. 
He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where 
the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, 
calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more help- 
less beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — 
the tomb. Alreadj^ he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to 
it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and 
remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart 
sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his 
youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn 
moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two 
roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fer- 
tile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other 
conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was 
QO issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. 

He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish: " O youth, return! O 
my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better 
road!" But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the 
departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. 
*' Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from 
heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of 
myself ! " he exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to 
the heart. 

Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with him, but who 
having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this 
New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling 
on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring 
:Son ; the lessons they had taught him ; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. 
Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven 
where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, 
iie cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! Come back!" 

And his youth did return; for all this had been but a dream, visithig his slum- 
bers on New Year's night. He was still young; his errors only were no dream. He 
thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; that he had not yet entered the 
deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land 
where sunny • harvests wave. 

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting Avhich path to choose, remem- 
ber that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, 
you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "O youth, return! Oh, give me back my early 
days!" 

From (he German of Jean Pail Richter. 



704 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 




DRIFTING. 



;Y soul to-day- 
Is fai" away, 
^ Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
I ? My winged boat, 

■^^ A bird afloat. 

Swims round the purple peaks remote. 



Far, vague and dim 
The mountains swim; 

While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
With outstretched hands 
The gray smolce stands, 

O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 




" In lofty lines, 
Mid palms and pines, 
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines." 



Round purple peaks 

It sails and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

AVhere high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below. 
A ihiplicated golden glow. 



Here Ischia smiles 
O'er liquid miles; 

And yonder, bluest of the isles, 
Calm Capri waits. 
Her sapphire gates 

Beguiling to her bris^ht estates. 



SENTEVIENT AND REFLECTION. 



705 



1 heed not, if 

My rippliug skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; — 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

^Vhere swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With eai-th and ocean reconciled; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Ai-e murmuring to the murmuring keel. 



Or down the walls, 
With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows; — 

This happier one, 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship. 
To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 




"While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
With outstretched hands 
The gray smoke stands, 

O'erlooking the volcanic lands," 



. Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail ; 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful ej'^es 

My spirit lies 
Wbere Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'ei'veiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 
The cliffs amid. 
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; 



O happy crew, 
My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 

No more, no more 

The Avordly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful e^-es 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

In lofty lines. 

Mid palms and pines. 
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 

Sorrento swings 

On sunset wings, 
Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



706 



THE GOLDElSr TKEASURY. 



ALONE BY THE HEARTH. 






PERE, in my snug fire-lit chamber, 
Sit I alone; 

^f And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
f^ Daj's long agone. 

Saddening it is when the night has descended. 

Thus to sit here, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 

Many a 5-ear. 



'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger, 

(Thus passion errs.) 
Foolishly kissing the ring on mj- finger — 

Once it was hers. 

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 

Here, in this room. 
Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted. 

Sit in the gloom. 




•S;nldenin2: it is when tlie niglit has descended, 
Thus to sit liere, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 
Many a year." 



Still in my visions a golden-haired glory 

Flits to and fro; 
She whom I loved — but 'tis just the old story 

Dead, long ago. 



Loud 'gainst the window the winter wind dashes. 

Dreary- and cold ; 
Over the floor the red fire-light flashes. 

Just as of old. 



SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



707 



Just iis of old — but the embers are scattered, 

Whose ruddj' blaze 
Flashed o"er the floor where the fairy feet i)attered 

111 other days! 



Time and death, sooner or later, mnst sunder 
Holiest ties. 

Years have rolled by; 1 am wiser and older — 
Wiser, but yet 



Melted awaj' ; 
56 walls have n 
Now liushed for aye ! 

Why should love bring naught but sorrow. I 
wonder? 

Everything dies ! 



Can I forget. 

Ro. in my snug little fire-lit chainlicr. 

Sit I alone; 
And, as I gaze in the coals. I remember 



George Arnold. 



i&^^ 



WAITING BY THE GATE. 



-^r- 



WM 



IESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the resllcss 
by. air 

'°^ Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow Scatters a moment's sweetness and tlies we know imi 

wliere ! 



i' lie, 

A\'hile streams the evening simshine on quiet wood 

and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's 

flight, 
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 

night; 
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant 

more. 
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day 

is o'er. 

Behold the portals open, and o"er the threshold, now, 



I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then 

withdrawn; 
But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird 

sings on. 
And I again am soothed, and. beside the ancient gate. 
In the soft evening sunlight, 1 calmlj' stand and wait. 

Once more the gates are opened; an infant groui) go 

out. 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 

sprightly shout. 
Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 

strows 



There steps a weary one with pale and furrowed Its fail- young buds unopened, \\itli every wind that 
brow ; blows ! 

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrouo-ht; ,, . ■ * . i i_ • t 

,, ■' , . ' » ' So come from every region, so enter, side by side. 

He itasses to his rest from a ijlace that needs him mi. ^ i * • * t • •*. ^i, ^ ^ 

^ The strong and faint of spirit, the meek, and men of 

not. . ° 

pride. 

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pil- 
lars gray. 
And iirints of little feet mark the dust along the way. 



In sadness then I ))onder how quickly fleets the hour 
Of human strength and action man's courage and his 

power ; 
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the 

golden day ; 
And as I look and listen the sadness wears awav. 



And some a])])roach the threshold whose l(>oks are 
blank with fear. 

And some whose teinijles brighten with joy in draw- 
ing near. 

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye 

Of Him, the sinless teacher. \\ho cam(> for us to die. 



Again the hinges turn, and a youth departing throws 
A look of longing backward and sorrowfully goes ; 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. 
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and I mark the joy, the terror; yet these within my heart, 
fail"- Can neither make the dread nor the longing to depart; 

And, in the sunshine streaming on (piict wood and 
Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays! lea. 

Oh crimson flusli of morning that darkens as we gaze! I stand and calinlv wait till the hino-es turn for me. 



44 



William Cullen Bryant. 



708 



THE GOLDEX TKEASUKY. 



THE DUKE OF GLOSTER ON HIS OWN DEFORMITY. 



^1^0 W :u-e our brows bound with victorious wreaths: 

Our bruised iiruis hung- up for mouuuieuts; 

Our steru alarums changed to uierry uieetiugs. 

Our dreadful marches to delightful- measures. 

Grira-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled 
front ; 

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds. 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 
He capers ninibh' in a ]ad}'"s chamber 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
Xor made to court an amorous looking-glass : 
I. that am rudely stamped, and want love"s majestj". 
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph : 



1, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, 
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature. 
Deformed, untiuisheii. sent before my time 
Into this breathing w orld, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionable, 
T'hat dogs bark at me, as I halt by them; 
Why I, in this weak jjiping time of peace. 
Have no delight to pass away the time, 
Unless to spj' my shadow in the sun. 
And descant on mine own deformity ; 
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 
To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 
I am determined to prove a villain, 
And hate the idle pleasures of tiiese days. 

WlLLIAil SllAKESrEAKE. 



SUNBEAMS. 



^ BABY sat on his mother's knee, 

On the golden morn of a summer's day, 
Clapping his tiny hands in glee. 

As he watched the shifting sunbeams play, 

A sunbeam glanced through the open door. 

With its shimmering web of atoms tine. 
And crept along on the sanded floor 

In a glittering, glimmering, golden line. 

The baby laughed in his wild delight. 
And clutched at the quivering golden baud; 

But the sunbeam fled from his eager sight. 
And nought remained in the dimpled hand. 

For a cloud had swept o'er the summer sky. 
And gathered the beam to its bosom gray. 

And wrapped iu a mantle of sombi'e dye 
The glory and jjride of the summer's day. 

Tims cheated sore in liis eager quest. 
With a puzzled look that was sad to see. 



He laid his head on his mother's Rreast 
And gazed in the dear face vvistfulh'. 

The cloud swejjt b)-, and the beam returned, 
But the wearj- child was slumbering now. 

And heeded it not, though it glowed and burned 
Like a crown of flame on his baby brow. 

And I thought, ah, babe, thou art not alone 
In thy bootless quest for a fleeting toy, 

For we all are babes, little wiser grown. 
In our chase for some idle and transient joy. 

We are grasping at sunbeams day by day. 

And gfX but our toil for our weary pains; 
For ever some cloudlet obscures the ray. 

And naught in the sordid grasp remains. 

But when the lures of om- youth depart. 
And our empty strivings are all forgot. 

Then down in some nook of the peaceful heart 
"The sunbeam glows when we seek it not. 

Egbert PiiErfrs. 



THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE. 



IP^O farewell to the little good you bear me, 
^m Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness I 

"Mi '^'""^ ''^ ^^^ ^*^*® ^^ '""■" • '^o-fl'\v he puts forth 
<|r The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And hears his blushing honors thick u])on him : 

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. 

And, when he thinks, good easy man. full siuely 

His greatness is a-ripening. nips his root. 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 

This many .summers in a sea of glory. 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown jnidc 



At length broke under me. and now has left me. 
AVeary. and old with senMce. to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glorj^ of this world. I hate ye; 
r feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes" favors! 
There is. betwixt that smile we would aspire to. 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wai's or women have; 
-Vnd when he falls, he falls like Lucifer. 
Xever to hope again. 

William Siiakesi»e.*re. 



SENTIMENT AND KEFI.EL'TION. 



709 



ESTKANGEMEN T. 



||LAS ! they had beeu friends in youth ; 

But whispering tongues can poison iniih; 
And constancy lives in reahus above; 
And life is thorny; and youth is vaiu; 
And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 



A dnnuy sea now tlows betweeu; 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
. Shall whollj' do away, I ween. 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

Samuel Taylok Coleridge. 




" Like cliffs which liad been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between." 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining, — 
They stood aloof, the sears remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asundei'; 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. 

||lp||0 be, or not to be, — that is the question 

^SIbIs AVhpthpr 'tis nohlpr in tht" min<l tn cnf 



Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
-^^" The slings and arrows of outi'ageous fortune; 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 

And by opposing, end them? — To die. — to 
sleep, — 

No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die ; — to sleep ; — 
To sleej) ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there 's the rub ; 
For in that sleep of death A\hat dreams may come. 
When we have shiitHed off this mortal coil. 
Must give us pause ; there "s the respect 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely. 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. 
The insolence of ottice and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
When he himself might his quietus uiak(i 
With a bare bodkinV who A\ould fardels bear. 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life; 
But that the dread of something after deatli. — 
The undiscovered country, from whose Ixnn-ne 
No traveler returns, — i)uzzles the will : 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
Than flj'' to others that we know not of! 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; 
And enterprises of great pith and uiouient. 
With this regard, theii- currents turn a-w i-y. 
And lose the name of action. 

William Shakespeahe. 



a^O-DAY. 



|0 here hath been dawning 
" Another blue day; 
Think wilt thou let it 
Slip useless away. 

Out of Eternity 

This new Day is born ; 
Into Eternity 

At night will return. 



Behold it aforetime 

No ej^e ever did ; 
So soon it forever 

From all ej'es is hid. 

Here hath been dawning 

Another blue day ; 
Tiiink wilt thou let it 

Slip useless away. 

TiiOM.As Caklyle. 



710 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



THE STEEAM. 



i 



iPi STEEA3I. descendiug to the !=ea. 

Thy iiiossj' banks between, 
^t*^ The rtowerets blow, the grasses grow. 
J=l Thj- leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 
The tields the laborers till. 

And houses stand on either hand. 
And thou descendest still. 



Strong purposes our minds possess, 

Our hearts affections fill : 
AVe toil and earn, we seek and learn 

And thou descendest still. 

O end to which our currents tend. 

Inevitable sea 
To which we flow I what do we know, 

\VTiat shall we guess of thee? 




" O stream, descending to the sea, 
Thy mossy banks t)et\veen, 

Tlic flowerets blow, the grrasses gri'ow. 
Thy leafy trees are green." 



O life, descending into death. 

Our waking eyes behold ; 
Parent and friend thy lapse attend. 

Com])auious young and old. 



A roar wc hear upon thy shore, 

As we our course fulfill; 
Scarce we divine a suu will shine 

And be above us still. 

Aktiiur High Clough. 



ooc^ 



Part XI. 



Cf|ri)e£ nnb P^tl^o^ 



"^'^W 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



-a,. 2^ S/F^ •■^- 




' Over the river on the hill 
Lieth a village white and stil 



THE TWO VILLAGES. 




E the river on the hill 
Lieth ii village white and still ; 
All aronud it the forest trees 
Shiver and whisper in the breeze; 
Over it sailing shadows go 
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow ; 
And mountain grasses, low and sweet. 
Grow in the middle of every street. 



Over the river under the hill 
Another village lieth still ; 
There I see in the cooling uight 
Twinkling stars of household light, 
Fires that gleam from smithy's door, 
Mists that curl on the rivei-"s shore; 
And in the road no grasses grow. 
For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 

71 :5 



714 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



In that village on the hill 

Xever is sound of smithy or mill; 

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers. 

Xever a clock to tell the hom's : 

The marble doors are always shut : 

You may not enter at hall or hut. 



r<S^ 




In that village under the hill. 
When the night is starry and still. 
Many a wear}' soul in prayer 
Looks to the other village there. 
And weeping and sighing, longs to go 
Up to that home from this below: 
Longs to sleep by the forest wild. 
Whither have vanished wife and child. 
And heareth. praying, the answer fall. — 
•• Patience : That village shaU hold ye all ! '• 
Rose Tekuy Cooke. 



Uve- l.._ r l>- 

Another villaare lieth still.' 



All tlie village lie asleep. 
Xever a grain to sow or reap ; 
Xever in dreams to moan or sigh ■ 
Silent, and idle, and low, they lie. 



THE BLIXD BOY. 

SAY', what is that thing called light. 

AVhich 1 must ne'er enjoy ? 
AVhat are the blessings of the sight":' 

O tell your poor blind boy I 

You talk of wondrous things you see. 

You saj' the sun shines l)right : 
I feel him warm, but how can he 

Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make. 

"\Miene"er I sleep or play: 
And coidd I ever keep awake, 

A^'ith me "t were always day. 

AVith heavy sighs I often hear 

You mourn my hapless woi'i . 
But sure with patience J can bear 

A loss I ne'er can know . 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy; 
AVhilst thus I sing, I am a king. 

Although a poor blind boy. 

("OI.LKY ClBBEK. 



0>.>^SXK» 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 



P^ HAVE had i^laj'mates, I have liad companion^. 
^ In mv davs of childhood, in mv iovful school- 

^ days: 

}[ All. all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing. 1 have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies: 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest am»ng women ; 
Closed are her doors on me. I must not see her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; 
T,oft him. to nnise on the old familiar faces. 



Ghost-like 1 i)aced round the liannts of my child- 
hood : 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a biother. 
"Whj- wert not thou born in my father's dwelling"? 
So might we talk of the old familial- faces. — 

How some they have died, and some they have left 

me, 
And some are taken from me: all are departed: 
All. all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Oii.VKLES Lamb. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



715 



THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE. 



g^OW sweet and solemn all alone, 

With reverent steps, from stone to stone, 
^F In a small village cburcbyard lying, 
^ O'er intervening flowers to move! 

|i And as we read the names unknown, 
^ Of young and old to judgment gone, 
And hear in the calm air above, 
Time onward, softly flying. 

To meditate, in Christian love. 
Upon the dead and dying ! 



The friends we loved, long, long ago ! 

Gliding across the sad retreat. 

How beautiful their phantom feet! 

What tenderness is in their eyes. 

Turned where the poor survivor lies 

"Mid monitory ^sanctities ! 

What years of vanished joj's are fanned 

From one uplifting of that hand 

In its white stillness ! when the shade 

Doth glimmeringiy in sunshine fade 




"And as we read the names unknown, 
Of young and old, to judgment gone." 



Across the silence seems to go 

With dream-like motion wavering slow, 

And shi-onded in their folds of snow, 



From our embrace, how dim a])pcars 
This woi-ld"s life through a mist of tears! 
Vain hopes! l)lind sorrows! needless fears! 
John Wilson (Christopher North) . 



MY HEART AND I. 



Ij^NOUGII! we "re tired, my heart and I: 
i^~^ We sit beside the headstone thus. 
^ And wish the name were carved for lis ; 

^ The moss reprints more tenderly 

The hard types of the mason's knife. 
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life, 
AVitli which we "re tired, mv heart and I. 



You see we 're tired, my heart and I; 

We dealt with books, we trusted men. 

And in our own blood drenched the pen. 
As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortune's end. 

We loved too true to keep a friend : 
At last we 're tired, inv heart and I. 



K) 



THE GOT.DEX TREASURY. 



How tired we feel, my heart aud J ; 

Vi'e seem of no use iu the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men's eyes indifferently; 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 

You sleep; our tears are onlj"^ wet; 
What do we here, nij' heart and I? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ; 
It was not thus in that old time 
"When Ralph sat with me "neath the lime 

To watch the sun set from the sky : 

•• Dear Love, you 're looking tired,'" he said; 
I, smiling at him, shook my head; 

"Tis now we 're tired, my heart and 1. 

So tired, so th-ed. my heart and I ! 

Though now none takes me on his arm 
To fold nie close and kiss me warm. 



Till each i^uick breath ends in a sigh 
Of happy languor. Xow, alone 
We loan upon his graveyard stone, 

Uncheered, unkissed. my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, mj- heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To temi^t us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, mj' heart and I. 

Y^'et. who complains? My heart and I? 
In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out; 

Disdain them, break them, throw them by; 
And if before the days grew rough. 
We once were loved, then — well enough 

I think we "ve fared, my heart and I. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




WITH THE DEAD. 



^^E hasten to the dead : 



AVhat seek ye there. 
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear? 
O thou (|uick heart which pantest to possess 
All that anticipation feigneth fair I — 
Thou vainly cm-ious mind which wouldest guess 
^Vhcnce thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go, 



And that which never yet was known Mouldst know— 

Oh. whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path. 

Seeking alike from happiness and woe 

A refuge in the cavern of gray death? 

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! AMiat thing do you 

Hope to inherit in the grave below? 

Percy Bvsshe Shelley. 



GRIEK AXI) PATHOS. 



717 



A DEATH-BED. 



*'E7i suffering ended with the day; 
Yet lived she at its close, 
V|yx" And breathed the long, long night away 
11 In statue-like repose. 



But when the sun, in all his state. 

Illumed the eastern skies. 
She passed through glory's niorniug-gate. 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldi:icii. 




THE DEATH OF THE FLOAYERS. 



HIUHE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
^^ year, 

'^ Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mead- 
J][ ows brown and sear. 

1 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autunm 
leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the ed(iying gust, and to the rabbit's 

tread. 
The robin and the wren are tlown, and from the shrubs 

the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the 
gloomy day. 

Where are the tlowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
hood? 

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of 
flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold Novem- 
ber rain 

Calls not fi-om out the gloomy earth the lovely ones 
again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
ago. 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 

Hut on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
woo<l. ' 



And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autunui. 
beauty stood. 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
the plague on men. 

And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- 
land, glade, and glen. 

And now. when comes the calm, mild day, as still such 
days will come. 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their w intei- 
home; 

AVhen the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
the trees are still. 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill; 

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore. 

And sighs to And them in the wood and by the stream 
no more. 

And then I think of one who in her yoiUliful beauty 

died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew u|) and faded by my 

side; 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests 

cast the leaf. 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 

brief : 
Yet not unmeet it was that one. like that j-oung friend 

of ours. 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cvm.kn Bryant. 



718 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



c-*^ 



SANDS OF DEE. 



¥ 



;MARY. go and call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
And caU the cattle home. 



Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so lair. 
.Anions: the stakes of Dee? "" 




■AikI call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee." 



Across the sands of Dee! " 
'ITie western wind was wild and dank witli foam. 
And all alone went she. 



They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
The crnel. crawl ins: foam. 



The creejiing tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o"er the sand. 
And roimd and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see : 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land : 
And never home came she. 




** Thev rowed her in across the rolling foa?^' 

•O. is it weed, ov fish, or floating hair. — 
A tress of golden hair. 
Of drowned maiden's hair. — 



To her grave beside the sea." 



To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee. 

ClIAKLES KiNGSLEY. 



IfgpE that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. 
^4j^ EternitA' mourns that. 'Tis an ill cnre 
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. 



AMiere sorro\v 's held intrusive and turned out. 
There wisdom Mill not enter, nor true power. 
Xor auffht that disfuifies liumanit^". 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



719 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



sY mother! when I learned that thou wast 
dead, 

yay, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 

Wretch even then, life's journej^ just begun? 

Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ■ 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, dre\\- 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone 



Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May 1 but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting words shall pass mj^ lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wished. I long believed. 
And, disappointed still. \\as still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-moiTOw came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot. 
But. though I less deplored thee, ne"ei' forgot. 

William Cowi'er. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 



|NE more unfortunate. 
Weary of breath, 
Eashlj'' importunate, 
> Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderlj-. 
Lift her with care : 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young and so fair! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully; 
Think of her mournfully. 
Gently and humanly; 
Nfyt of the stains of her. 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Eash and nndutifnl; 
Past all dishonor. 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers. 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escap/ed from the comb. 
T7er fair aubiu'n tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 



Who was her father? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother? 

Or was there a dearer one 

Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
LTnder the sun ! 
O, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full. 
Home she had none. 

Sistei-ly. brotherly. 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming esti-anged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river. 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement. 

She stood, with amazement. 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of iSrarcli 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or tlie black flowing ri\ei- : 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mj-steiy 
Swift to be hurled, — 
.Vnywhere, anj-where 
Out of the world ! 



720 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



lu she pluuged boldlj', 
Xo matter how coldlj' 
The rough river ran. — 
Over the brink of it. 
Picture it, — think of it, 
Dissolute man I 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderlj'. 
Lift her witli care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidlj- 
Stiffen too rigidly. 
Decently, — kindly — 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her ej'es, close them. 
Staring so blindlv.' 



Dreadfully staring 
'J'hrough muddy impuritj'-, 
As when Avith the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futuritj'. 

Perishing gloomilj-. 
Spurred by contmiiely, 
Cold inhumanity. 
Burning iusauitj'. 
Into her rest. 
Cross hei- hands humbly 
As if praying dumbl}-. 
Over her breast I 

Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behaxior, 
And leaving, xvith meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Thomas Hood. 



LITTLE SHOES AND STOCKIXGS. 



r^i:io 



^ITTLE shoes and stockings! 

What a tale ye speak. 
Of the swollen eyelid. 

And the tear-wet cheek; 
Of the nightly vigil, 

And the daily prayer; 
Of the buried darling. 

Present everj'where ! 

Brightly plaided stockings 

Of the finest wool; 
Rounded feet, and dainty, 

Each a stocking full : 
Tiny shoes of crimson. 

Shoes that nevermore 
Will awaken echoes 

From the toy-strex\Tn floor. 

ISTot the wealth of Indies 
Could j'our worth eclipse. 

Priceless little treasures. 
Pressed to whitened lips ; 



As the mother nurses. 

From the world apart. 
Leaning on the arrow 

That has pierced her heart. 

Head of flaxen ringlets ; 

Eyes of heaven's blue; 
Parted mouth — a rosebud — 

Pearls just peeping through ; 
Soft arms, softlj' twining 

Round her neck at eve; — 
Little shoes and stockings, 

These the dreams ye weave. 

Weave lier yet another. 

Of the world of bliss;— 
Let the stricken mother 

Turn away from this: 
Bid her dream believing 

Little feet await. 
Watching for her passing 

Through the pearly gate. 



-lr^<L^ 



-4 



WHEN WE TAYO PARTED. 



^HEX we two parted 
l« In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 
To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss : 
Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this. 



ITie dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow. 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thj' fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its sliame. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



721 



They uame thee before ine, 

A kiiell to mine ear ; 
A slmdder eoiues o'er me,— 

AV'hy wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : - 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 



In secret we met, — 

In silence 1 grieve, 
Tiiat thy hi^art could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 

Lord Bykon. 



LITTLE JIM. 



r^t?^ 



SJ|1|hE cottage was a thatched one, the outside old I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry, 

^^ aud mean. Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't 

W. But all withiu that little cot was wondrous neat you cry." 

l' and clean- With gentle, ti-embling haste she held the liquid to his 
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was ho\\iing lip ; 

,^^.jj(j He smiled to thank her as he took cacli little, tiny sip. 

As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her a t^jj father, when he comes fnnii work. I said good- 
child : night to him. 

A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas ! poor little 
dim: Jim! 

It was a collier's wife and child — they called him She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved 
little Jim. so dear. 




'•The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean." 

And oh ! to see the briny tears fast hmrying down her Had uttered the last words she mighteverhope to hear : 

cheek, The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard 

As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a 
afraid to speak. word. 

Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her 



life; 

For she had all a mother's heart — had that poor col- 
lier's wife. 

AVith hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the suffer- 
er's bed. 

And prays that He would s])are her boy, aud take her- 
self instead. 

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the 

words from him, 
••Motlier. the angels do so smile, and beckon little. lim. 



He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead. 
He took the candle in his hand and walked towards 

the bed; . 
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he 'd fain 

conceal, 
And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken cotii^le 

kneel : 
With hearts bowed down l)y sadness, tliey humbly ask 

of Him. 
In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor 

little Jim. 



722 



THE (iOLDE^' TREASURY. 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 



"M sittiu' on the stile, Maiy, 

Where we sat side hy side 
On a hi-ight Maj^ mornin" long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was spriugiu" fresh and green. 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red %\as ou your lip, Mary. 

And the love-light in your eye. 



"Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands ncai- — 
The church where we were wed, jMary, 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, . 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I "ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

AVith your baby ou your breast. 




"Where we sat side by side." 



The place is little changed, Mary — 

'J'he day is bright as then ; 
Th(! lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

.\nd your breath, warm on my cheek; 
And I still keep list'nin" for the words 

You nevermoi-e will si)eak. 



1 "m verj' lonely now, Maiy, 

For the poor make no new friends; 
But, O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends I 
And you were all I had, ]Mary. 

My blessin' and mj' pride; 
There 's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my pooi- Mary died. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



723 



Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary. 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul. 

And my arm's young strength was gone; 
'J'liere was comfort ever ou your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you. Mary, for that same. 

Though you cannot hear me now. 



1 "m biddin" you a long farewell. 

My Mary, kind and true I 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I' ni goin" to; 
They say there "s bread and work for all. 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I U not forget old Ireland. 

Were it fifty times as fair! 




'T is but a step down yonder lane. 
And the little churcli stands near." 



I thank you for the patient smile. 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger-pain was guawin' there, 

And j'ou hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
O, I'm thankful yon are gone, Marj', 

Where grief can't reach vou more! 



And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' coi-n. and the bright May morn 
AVhen first you were my bride. 

Lady Dukkkkin. 



UpHE loves and animosities of youth, where are they? Swept away like the camps 
that had been pitched in the sandy bed of the river. 



724 



THE GOLDEN TKEAStTRY. 



THE OLD SEXTON. 



iiGH to a grave that was newly made. 

Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral train at the open gate. 
A relic of bygone days was he, 
And his locks were as white as the foamy sea; 
And these words came from his lips so thin : 
'• I gather them in — I gather them in— 
Gather— gather— I gather them in. 

'■I gather them in; for man and boy. 

Year after year of grief and joy. 

I 've builded the houses that lie around 

In every nook of this burial-ground. 

Mother and daughter, father and son. 

Come to my solitude one by one; 

But come they stranger or come they kin, 

I o;ather them in— I gather them in. 



"Many are with me, yet I "m alone: 

I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 

On a monument slab of marble cold — 

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall. 

Mankind are my subjects, all. all. all I 

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 

"I gather them in, and their linal i-est 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast! " 

And the sexton ceased as the funeral train 

Wound mutely over that solemn jilain: 

And I said to myself : When time is told. 

A mightier voice than that sexton's old 

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din: 

"I gather them in — I gather them in — 

Gather — gather — gather them in! " 

PAKii Benjamin. 



sS— @s^ 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 



LO\TS it — 1 love it, and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ! 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize — 
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 
sighs; 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart. 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would you learn the spell? a mother sat there; 

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would give. 

To lit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide. 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; 

Slie taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 



I sat and watched her many a day. 

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray, 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shattered — my earth-star fled : 

I learnt how much the heart can bear. 

A\'hen I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
'TAvas there she nursed me — 'twas there she died, 
And memoiy flowed with lava tide — 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
While the scalding tears run down my cheek. 
But I love it — I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from my mother's old arm chair. 

Eliza Cook. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 




HEX chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One evening, as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr. 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seemed weary, worn with care: 
His face was furrowed o'er with years. 

And hoarv was his hair. 



" Young sti-anger. whither wanderest thou? ' 

Began the reverend sage : 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasures rage? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me. to mourn 

TTie miseries of man ! 



UEIEF AND PATHOS. 



725 



" The sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Outspreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 
A haughtj' lordliug"s pride, — 
1 "ve seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

" O man, while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thj' precious hours, 

Thj- glorious jouthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

'• Look not alone on j'outhful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind. 

Supported in his right; 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, ill-matched pair! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

'• A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise trulj' blest. 
But, O. what crowds in everj- land 

Are wretched and forlorn I 
ITirough weary life this lesson learn, — 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Many and sharp the numerous ills. 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 



And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn! 

"See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the eaith 

To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

" If I "m designed yon lordliug's slave, 

B}' Nature's law designed, — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not. why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn y 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn? 

"• Yet let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thj- youthful breast : 
This partial view of humankind 

Is surely not the last! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

" Death ! the poor man's, dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best! 
Welcome the hour mj' aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thv blows. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But O, a blest I'elief to those 

That weaiy-ladeu mourn! '' 

Egbert Bukns 



THE THREE FISHERS. 



^MhREP] fishers went sailing out into the west, 
^*^ Out into the west as the sun went down; 
X Each thought on the woman who loved him the 
'<> best. 

And the children stood watching them out of 
the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep. 
And thei-e 's little to earn, and many to keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
They looked at the squall, and thev looked at the 
shower, 

45 



And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and 

brown. 
But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 

For those who will never come home to the town; 

For men must work, and women must weep. 

And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; 

And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 

ClIAKLES KiNGSLKY. 



726 



THE GOLDEX TREASUKY. 



THE BEGGAR. 



■ ctfe. 



>'rTY the sorrowi? of a poor old man I 

Whose treiubliug limbs have borue him to 
your door, 
WTiosedays are dwindled to the shortest span. 
O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your 
store. 

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, 
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; 

And many a f uitow in mj' grief -worn cheek 
Has been the channel to a stream of tears. 




'•Pity the sorrows of a poor old man." 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 
With tempting aspect drew me from my road 

For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeiu' a magnificent abode. 



(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) 
Here craving for a morsel of their bread, 

A pampered menial forced me from the door. 
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 

O. take me to j-om- hospitable home, 
Keen blows the wind, and pieri'ing is the cold I 

Short is mj' passage to the friendly tomb, 
For I am poor and miserably old. 

Should I reveal the som-oe of every grief, 
U soft humanitj' e'er touched your breast. 

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, 
And tears of pity could not be repressed. 

Heaven sends misfortunes — wh}- should we repine? 

"Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see : 
And j'our condition may be soon like mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paterual lot. 

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn ; 
But ah I oppression forced me from my cot; 

My cattle died, and blighted \\ as my corn. 

My daughter, — once th? comfort of my age ! 

Lured by a villain from her native home. 
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage. 

And doomed in scantj- povertj* to roam. 

Mj^ tender wife. — sweet soother of mj- care I — 
Sti'uck with sad anguish at the stern decree. 

Fell, — lingei'iug fell, a victim to despair. 
And left the world to wretchedness and me. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man I 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to yoi 
door, 
"VMiose days are dwindled to the shortest span. 
O. sive relief, and heaven will bless your store. 

Thomas Moss. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 



[In the Irish Famine of '47.] 



^AS ever sorrow like to oitr sorrow, 

O God above? 
<^' Will our night never change into a morrow 
■ Of joy and love? 

A deadly gloom is on us. waking sleeping. 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 
By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation; 

Around us cries of famine and despair: 
Where is hope for us. or comfort, or salvatiou- 

Where. O where? 



If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 
They are weeping, we are sure. 

At the litanies of human groans ascending 
From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

^VTien the human rest in love upon the human 

All grief is light; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night? 
"he air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God has only made the rich to smile : 
But we in rags and want and woe — we follow after, 

Weeping the while. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



727 



AVe never kuew a childhood's mirth and gladness. 

Xor the proud heart of youth, free and 
hrave ; 
A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is GUI' life's journey to the grave; 
Day bj' daj' we lower sink and lower. 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of poverty and sin. 



We must toil though the light of life is burning. 

Oh, how dim I 
We must toil on oui- sick-bed, feeblj" turning 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying. 

With scarce-moved breath. 
While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, 

'•Lord, grant us death! '' 

Lady Wilue (Sperauza). 



UNDER THE DAISIES. 



HA"\Ti; just been learning the lesson of life, 

The sad, sad lesson of loving, 
And all of its power for pleasure and pain 

Been slowly, sadly proving; 
And all that is left of the bright, bright dream, 

With its thousand brilliant phases. 
Is a handful of dust in a cofflu hid — 

A coffin under the daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And thus forever throughout the world 

Is love a sorrow proving ; 
There 's many a sad, sad thing in life. 

But the saddest of all is loving. 
Life often divides far wider than death ; 

Stern fortune the high wall raises ; 



But better far than two hearts estranged 
Is a low grave starred with daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
TTie snowy, snowy daisies. 

And so I am glad that we lived as we did, 

Through the summer of love together. 
And that one of us, wearied, la\' down to rest. 

Ere the coming of winter weather; 
For the sadness of love is love grown cold. 

And 'tis one of its surest phases; 
So I bless my God, with a breaking heart. 

For that grave enstarred with daisies; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

Hattie Tyng Griswold. 



EXILE OF ERIN. 



^HEEE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin. 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
^ff^ For his country he sighed, when at twilight re- 
J^. pairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. 
Where once, in the fii-e of his youthful emotion. 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bi'agh. 

"Sad is my fate! '" said the heart-broken sti'anger: 
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee. 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
A home and a coimtry remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 
hours. 

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers. 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go braghl 

" Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken. 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

Rnt. alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh lor the friends who can meet me no more! 



cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace. — where no perils can chase me'? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 
They died to defend me or live to deplore! 

••AV^here is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? 

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall"? 
AVTiere is the mother that looked on my childhood ; 

And where is the bosom friend dearer than all? 
O. my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasui'c. 
AV'hy did it dote on a fast-fading treasui'e? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure. 

But rapture and beautj' they cannot recall. 

"Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
Land of my forefathers! Erin go braghl 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields. — sweetest isle of the ocean! 

And thj' harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo- 
tion, — 
Erin mavourniu,— Erin go bragh ' "' 

Thomas Campbell. 



728 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COYER ME. 



2fih 



l^iJUfHEN the grass shall cover me, 

Head to foot where I am Ij'ing; 
When not any wind that blows, 
Sunnner blooms nor winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing; 
Close above me as you pass. 
You will say, '-How kind she was," 
Y'ou will say, "How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to Earth's warm bosom; 
While I laugh, or weep or sing 
Nevermore for anything; 
You will find in blade and blossom, 



Sweet, small voices, odorous, 
Tender pleaders in my cause. 
That shall speak me as I was — 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient, I can wait — 
Knowing that or soon or late. 
There will dawn a clearer morrow; 
When j^our heart will moan, ''Alas I 
Now I know how true she was; 
Now I know how dear she was." 
When the grass gro\\s over me I 

Ina D. Coolbrith. 



■Zfi^^zr^^^ 



SLEEP. 



' He giveth his beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxti. 2. 



liF all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar. 
Among the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
'• He giveth his beloved sleep? " 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, — 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, — 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, — 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows? 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Wliat do we give to our beloved? 
A little faith, all undisproved, — 
A little dust to overweep, 
And bitter memories, to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake, 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say. 

But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; 



But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noise ! 
O men, with wailing in your voice! 
O delved gold the wallers heap I 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! 
God strikes a silence through you all. 
And "giveth his beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
His cloud above it saileth still, 
Though on its slope men sow and reap ; 
More softly than the de\\' is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 

Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the numnners leap, 

Would now its wearied vision close. 

Would childlike on his love repose 

Who " giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Baukett Browning. 




THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 



I^WITH fingers weaiy and worn, 



With eyelids heavj' and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt! "' 



"Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work ! 

Till the stars shine thi-ongh the roof! 
It 's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
^Vhere woman has never a soul to save. 

If THIS is Christian work! 



GREEF AJSTD PATHOS. 



729 



"Work — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim! 
Work — woi'k — work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in my dreajn ! 

Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 

Oh! men with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once with a double thread, 

A SHROUD as well as a shirt! 

'•But why do I talk of death, 

That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own, 

Biicause of the fast I keep : 
O God ! that bread should be so dear. 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

"Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags : 
A shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

"Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime; 
"Work — work — work ! 

As prisoners work for crime! 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed. 

As well as the weary hand ! 

"W(irk — work — work ! 

In the dull December light; 
And work — work — work! 

When the weather is clear and bright : 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs. 

And tjvit me with the Spring. 

"Oh! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; 

With the sky above mv head, 
And the grass beneath my feet: 



For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal. 

"Oh! but for one short hour! 

A ]-espite, however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 








'A wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
For sometimes fallina' there." 



With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch I 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch ! — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich! — 

She sung this "Song of the Shirt!" 

Thomas Hood. 



730 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



THE CONQUERED BAXXER. 



.s — ^ 
f^'UEL that banner, for 'tis ■\vearv: 



Round its staff "tis drooping dreary, 

Furl it. fold it, it is best; 
For there "s not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it : 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest. 

Take that banner down, 'tis tattered! 
Broken is its shaft and shattered, 
And the valiant host are scattered, 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it! 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those that once unrolled it 

Xow must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that banner — furl it sadl}' — 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladlj' 
And ten thousands wildly, madly. 

Swore it should forever wave — 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
"Till that flag should float forever 

O er their freedom or their arave.' 



Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that clasped it. 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And that banner — it is trailing! 
"WTiile around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For though conquered, they adore it! 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it! 
Weep for those who fell before it! 
Pardon those who ti-ailed and tore it! 
But. oh! wildlj' they deplore it, 
Xow, who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that banner! True, 'tis gorj-. 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust: 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned bj' poets and by sages. 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now \\e must. 

Furl that banner, softly, slow ly ; 
Treat it gently — it is holy. 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never — 
Let it droop there furled forever. 

For its people's hopes are dead! 

Abram T. Eyan. 



IF. 



IpF. sitting with this little worn-out shoe 
Hfe And scarlet stocking Ivingf on mv knee. 

¥1 knew the little feet had pattered thi'ough 
^ The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven and 

me. 
I could be reconciled and happy too. 
And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea. 

If in the morning, when the song of birds 
Reminds me of a music far more sweet, 

I listen f(u- his pretty, broken words. 
And for the music of his dimpled feet. 

I could be almost happy, though I heard 
Xo answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 

I could be glad if. when the day is done. 
And all its cares and heartaches laid away, 

I could look westward to the hidden sun. 
And. with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say— 

"To-night I "ni nearer to my little one 
By just the travel of a single day."' 



If 1 could know those little feet were shod 
In sandals wrought of light in better lands. 

And that the foot-prints of a tender God 
Ran side by side with him. in golden sands, 

I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod. 
Since Benny was in wiser, safer hands. 

If he were dead. I would not sit to-daj' 
And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee; 

I would not kiss the tinj' shoe and say — 
'' Bring back again mj- little boy to me! " 

I would be patient, knowing *t was God's way. 
And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea. 

But oh ! to know the feet, once pure and white, 
The haunts of vice had boldly ventured in! 

The hands that should have battled for the right 
Had been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin ! 

.\nd should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night. 
To fear mj- boj' could hardly enter in I 

May Eiley Smith. 



a|P^|S the tree is fertilized bv its own broken branches and fallen leaves, and ffrows out of 
its own decay, so is the soul of man ripened out of broken hoj^es and blighted 
affections. 



GKIEF AND PATHOS. 



731 



SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 



jpNTO a ward of the whitewashed walls, 

Where the dead and dying lay, 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls. 

Somebody's Darling was borne one day — 
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, 

Wearing j^et on his pale, sweet face, 
Soon to be hid bj^ the dust of the grave. 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold. 
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 

Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
Somebody's Darling is dying now. 



Somebody's hand had rested there, — 
Was it a mother's soft and white? 

And have the lips of a sister fair 
Been baptized in those waves of light? 

God knows best; he has somebody's love; 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above. 

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away. 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 

Somebody clung to lii?; ])arting hand. 




■ Somebody's darling slumbers here.' 



Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow 
Brush all the wandering waves of gold. 

Cross his hands on his bosom now. 
Somebody's Darling is still and cold. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 
Murmur a prayer soft and low; 

One bright curl from its fair mates take. 
They were somebody's pride, you know ; 



Somebody's waiting and watching for him — 

Yearning to hold him again to the heart; 
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim. 

And the smiling childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly buiy the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head, — 

'■Somebodj^'s Darling slumbers here." 

Marie R. Lacoste. 




ROSALIE. 



^iM^IIEN ^hou, in all thy loveliness, 
^■- Sweet Rosalie, wert mine. 

Of Earth's one more, of Heaven's one less, 
I counted things divine. 

But since the lilies o'er thy breast 
Out of the sweetness spring, 



Of love's delight I miss the rest 
And keep alone the sting. 

Till now T reckon things divine 

Not as T did before ; 
Earth's share has dwindled down to mine, 

And Heaven has all the more. 

William C. Richards. 



732 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



TWO MYSTERIES. 

["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a ^eat chair, 
sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the 
spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, 
and added, ' We don't, either.' "J 



I^E know uot what it is, dear, this sleep so deep Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death cau be; 



Yet, O, how dear it is to us. this life we live and 
seel 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — and 

blessed is the thought, 
'• So death is sweet to us, beloved I though we may 

show you naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death — 
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mysterj' of breath."' 




IM and still; 

^(f5'^ The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so 
Ij pale and chill; 

The lids that will not lift again, though we 
may call and call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. 



We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart 

pain; 

This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; 
We know not to what other sphere the loved who The child who enters life comes not with knowledge 

leave us go. or intent. 

Nor whj' we 're left to wonder still, nor whj- we do So those who enter death must go as little children 
not know. sent. 

Nothing is known. But I believe that God is over- 
head : 
And as life is to the liviuo-. so death is to the dead. 



But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they 

should come this day — 
Should come and ask us, •' What is life? "' not one of 

us could sav. 



JMakv 3IAPKS Dodge. 



FLORENCE VANE. 



LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane. 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again : 
I renew in my fond vision. 

My heart's dear pain. 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The I'uin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst mark m\- story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
ITiy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme; 



-^*~eM- 



ITiy heart was a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thj^ glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day! 
And it boots not to remember 

Th}' disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valle.v 

By young graves weep. 
The pausies love to dally 

^Miere maidens sleep: 
May their bloom in beauty %yiag 

Xever wane. 
AMiere thine earthly part is lying. 

Florence Vanol 

Phillip Pendleton Cooke. 



A MOTHER'S HEART. 



^Bp LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers know : 
g^P^ A little lingering over dainty things; 
W'^'' A happy heart, wherein hope all aglow 
J4 Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings. 
And that is all. 



A little clasping to her yearning breast; 
A little nnising over future years: 

A heart that prays : " Dear Lord, thou knowest best- 
But spare my Hower life's bitterest rain of tears "- 
And that is all. 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



TdS 



A little spirit speeding through the night ; 

A little home grown lonely, dark and chill; 
A sad heart groping blindly for the light; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill — 
And that is all. 



A little gathering of life's broken thread ; 

A little patience keeping back the tears ; 
A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, 

God keeps her safe through his eternal years " 
And that is all. 



THE DYING BOY. 



KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod 

Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, 

And when the eigbth came round; and called him 

out 

To gambol in the sun, ho turned away 
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die! 

'Twas night — he sununoned his accustomed friends, 
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest : — 

" Mother! I'm dying now ; — 
There is deep suffocation in my breast, 
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed; 

And on my brow 

" I feel the cold sweat stand ; 
My lips grow dry and trenuilous. and my breath 
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death? 
Mother ! your hand — 

" Here — lay it on my wrist. 
And place the other thus, heneath my head. 
And say, sweet mother! — say, when 1 am dead, 

Shall I be missed? 

" Nevei- beside your knee 
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray. 
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay 

You taught to me ! 

'• Oh ! at the time of prayer, 
AVheii you look round and see a vacant seat. 
You will not wait then for my coming feet — 

You'll miss me there! — 

"Father! I'm going home! 
To the good home you speak of, that blest land 
WTiere it is one bright summer always, and 

Storms do not come. 



"I must be happy then: 
From pain and death you say I shall be free — 
That sickness never enters there, and we 

Shall meet again! '' — 

"Brother! the little spot 
I used to call my garden, where long hours 
We "ve stayed to watch the budding things and flowers. 

Forget it not! 

" Plant there some box or pine — 
Something that lives in winter, and will be 
A verdant offering to my memory. 

And call it mine! " 

"Sister! my young rose-tree — 
That all the spring has been mj' pleasant care, 
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair, 

I give it thee. 

'•And when its roses bloom, 
I shall be gone away — my short life done ! 
But will you not bestow a single one 

Upon my tomb? " 

"Now. mother, sing the tune 
You sang last night — I'm weary and must sleep! 
Who was it called my name? — Nay, do not weep. 

You '11 all come soon! '' 

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings — 
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, 
Lay on his conch asleep! The gentle air 
Came through the open window, fivighted with 
The savory odors of the earlj' spring. 
He breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by 
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tunc. 
But it marred not his slumbers — He was dead! 



ANGELUS SONG. 



NCE at the Angelus 
(Ere I M'as dead) , 
Angels all glorious, 

Came to my bed ; — 
Angels in blue and white. 
Crowned on the Head. 

One was the Friend I left 
Stark in the snow; 

One ^^■as the Wife that died 
Long — long ago ; 



One was the Love I lost — 
How could she know? 

One had my Mother's eyes. 

Wistful and mild ; 
One had my Father's face; 

One was a Child ; 
All of them bent to me — 

Bent down and smiled. 



Austin Dobson. 



734 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUHY. 



OUR CHILDHOOD. 



'|f1|"j^IS sad yet sweet to listen to the south-wiud's 

^^ gentle swell, 

"^l"^ And think we hear the music our childhood 

1 knew so well ; 

To gaze out on the even, and the boundless fields of air, 
And feel again our boyhood's wish to roam like angels 
tliere. 

There are many dreams of gladness that cling around 

the past, 
And from the tomb of feeling old thoughts come 

thi-onging fast; 
The forms we loved so dearly in the happj' daj's now 

gone, 
The beautiful and lovely, so fair to look upon. 

Those bright and gentle maidens, who seemed so 

formed for bliss. 
Too glorious and too heavenly for such a \\orld as 

this— 
Whose dark, soft eyes seemed swimming in a sea of 

liquid liglit, 
And whose locks of gold wei-e streaming o'er brows so 

sunny Ijright ; 

Whose smiles were like the sunshine in the spring- 
time of the year — 



Like the changeful gleams of April, thej^ followed 
everj- tear: 

They have i^assed — like liopes — away, and their love- 
liness has tied; 

Oh ! many a heart is mourning that they are with the 
dead. 

Like the brightest buds of sunnner they have fallen 
with the stem ; 

Yet, oh it is a lovelj' death to fade from earth like 
them! 

And yet the thought is saddeuiug to nuise on such as 

they. 
And feel that all the beautiful are passing fast away; 
That the fair ones whom we love grow to each loving 

breast 
Like the tendril of the clinging vine, then perish 

where tliey rest. 

And we can but think of these, in the soft and gentle 

Spring. 
When the trees are waving o'er us, and the flowers are 

blossoming; 
And we know that Winter 's coming with his cold and 

stormy sky. 
And the glorious beauty round us is budding but to 

die ! 

Geokge D. Pkkntice. 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



' iiPi^^^^ made her a grave, too cold and damp 
^gi^k For a heart so warm and true ; 
^f< And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 
J'i Swamp 

Where, all night long, by a fii-e-fly lamp. 
She paddles her white canoe I'' 

"And her fire-tly lamp I soon shall see. 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be. 
And 1 "11 hide the maid in a cypress tree, 

When the footstep of death is near!" 

Awaj' to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore. 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Tiirough many a fen. where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before! 

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep. 

If slumber his eyelids knew. 
He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew! 



And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear. 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
"Oh. when shall I see the dusky lake. 
And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played— 
"Welcome," he said "my dear one's light " 
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, 

The name of the death-cold maid ! 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 
Which carried him off from shore; 

Far, far he followed the meteor spark. 

Tlie wind was high and the clouds were dark. 
And the boat returned no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp. 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen, at the hour of midnight dami>. 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp. 

And paddle their white canoe! 

Thomas Moore. 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



735 



BALOW, MY BABE, LY STIL AND SLEIPE. 



|ALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 
It grieves lue saiv to see thee weipe; 
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad. 
Thy nuiining aiaks my heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy ! 
Thjr father breides me great annoj'. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 

It grieves nie sair to see thee weipc. 

When he began to court my Inve, 
And with his siigred words to muve, 
His fayuings fals and flattering cheire 
To me that time did not appeire : 
But now 1 see, most cruell heo, 
Cai'es neither for my babe nor niee. 
Balow, etc. 

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile. 
And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : 
But smile not, as thy father did. 
To cozen maids; nay. God forbid! 
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 
Balow, etc. 

1 eaunae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
U'haireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, 
My luve with him maun stil abyde : 
In well or wae, whaireir he gae, 
Mine hart can neir depart him f rae. 
Balow. etc. 

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine. 
To fayuings fals thine hart incline ; 
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
And nevir change hir for a new; 
If gude or faire, of hir have care. 
For women's banning's wonderous sair. 
Balow, etc. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 
Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine; 



My babe and I "11 together live, 

He '11 comfort nie when cares doe grieve; 

My babe and 1 right saft will ly. 

And quite forgeit nuurs cruelty. 

Balow, etc. 

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth 
That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 




" I^y stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, 
Ana when thou wakest sweitly smile.- 



I wish all maids be warned by mee, 

Nevir to trust man's curtesy; 

For if we doe but chance to bow. 

They '11 use us then they care not how. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe. 



-2^S? - 



A LIFE. 



.\Y dawned ; — within a curtained room. 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 

Day closed ; — a child had seen the light; 
But for the lady, fair and bi'ight. 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose; — the lady's grave was green. 
And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien. 



Years fled ; — he \\'ore a manl^' face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died ! Behold before ye 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. 

Bkyan Waller Procter. 

(Barry Cornwall.) 



736 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



" ONLY A YEAR." 



if^^XE j'ear ago.^a ringiug voice, 
MM A clear blue eye, 

^V Aud clustering curls of suuu}- hair, 
T|r Too fair to die. 

Onlj' a j-ear — uo voice, uo smile, 

Xo glauce of eye, 
Xo clustering curls of golden hair. 

Fair but to die I 

One year ago — what loves, what schemes 

Far into life ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife I 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone 
Of all that beauty. life, aud joy. 

Remain alone I 

One year. — one j'ear. one little year. 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even How of life 

Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 
Above that head; 



No son-owing tint of leaf or spray 
Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of meny birds 

That sing above. 
Tell us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

WTiere hast thou been this year, beloved? 

What hast thou seen, — 
What visions fair, what glorious life, 

^\^le^e thou hast beeny 

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong 

'Twixt us and thee ; 
The mystic veil, when shall it fall, 

That we may seeV 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even g>)ne, 

But present still. 
Aud waiting for the comiug hour 

Of God"s sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Savior dear! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 

This sad, sad year. 

llAURIET BEECHER StOW'E. 



^•zS^- 



4^ 

I^JUlIEY sat and combed their beautiful hair. 
a^^ Their long bright tresses, one by one. 
X As they laughed and talked in the chamber there. 
i> After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille- 

Idly they laughed, like other gii-ls. 
Who, over the fire, when all is still. 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Bi-ussels lace. 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too ; 
Scattered about in every place. 

For the revel is through. 

And Maud and 3Iadge in robes of white. 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun. 
Stoekingless. slipperless. sit in the night. 
For the revel is done ; 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 

And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill. 
.Ml out of the bitter Saint Agnes weather, 



AFTER THE BALL. 



^Miile the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together. — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white. 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun. 
Curtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done, - 

Float along in a splendid dream. 

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces. 

Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 
Men and women with beautiful faces 
And eyes of tropical dusk, 

And one face shining out like a star. 

One face haunting the dreams of each 
And one voice sweeter than others are, 
Breaking in silvery speech. 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

-Vn old. old story over again. 
As down the i-oyal bannered room. 

To the golden gittern's strain. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



737 



Two aud two, they dreamily walk, 

While an imseeu spirit walks beside, 
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 

He elaimeth one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge ! dream on together. 

With never a pang of jealous fear; 
For, ere the bitter Saint Agues weather 
Shall whiten another year. 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 

Braided brown hair, and golden tress, 
There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press; 



Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin aud Brussels lace — 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white. 

For you the revel has just begun ; 
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
The revel of life is done ! 

But robed aud crowned with your saintly bliss. 

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 

The kisses another hath won ! 

Nora Pekry. 



-^"a— 3^ 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 



IKEAVES have their time to fall, 

i!^ And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 

f'lM breath, 

4'| And stars to set, — but all, 
'" Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth ; 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth aud song aud wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay. 

And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set. — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain- 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? 
They have one season — all are ours to die! 

Thou art where billows foam ; 
Thou art where nuisic melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home; 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art thei'e. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumjiets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



-— <>»-er5-^.Oo~ 



THE DEATH-BED. 




E watched her breathing through the night. 



Her breathing soft and low. 
^ As in her breast the wave of life 
U Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak. 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 



Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
We thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



738 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 




DEATH OF LITTLE IsTELL. 



little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner 
chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he 
replied, with trembling lips: "You plot among you to wean my 
heart from her. You will never do that — never while I have life. 
I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will 
have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now." 
Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he 
went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew 
close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by 
emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently, 
that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among 
the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 

For she was dead. There, upon her littb bed, she lay at rest. The solemn 
stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so 
free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from 
the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and 
suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries 
and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor, "When I die, 
put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." 
Those were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — 
a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring 
nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motion- 
less forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? 
All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were 
born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former 
self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon 
that same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and 
care ; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the 
fui-nace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there 
had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, 
after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand ti^ht folded 
to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with 
her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever 
and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring 
that it was warmer now ; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood 
around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need 
of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was 
waning fast, — the garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless 
haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but 
yesterday — could know her no more. "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



739 



bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on 
earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to 
which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish 
expi'essed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us 
would utter it ? " 

Charles Dickens. 



THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE. 



HIUhE cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
^^ And pathless was the dreary wild. 
■^ And mid the cheerless hours of night 
f A mother wandered with her child : 
1 As through the drifting snow she pressed, 
The babe was sleeping on her breast. 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifting snow : 
Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. 

" O God! " she cried in accents wild, 

"If I must perish, save my child! " 



She stripped her mantle from her breast. 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapped the vest, 
And smiled to think her babe was warm. 

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveler passed by, 
And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 

The frost of death was in her eye, 
Her cheek was cold and hard and pale. 

He moved the robe from off the child, — 

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled! 

Seba Smith. 




THE PASSAGE. 



'ANY a year is in its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave : 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside, 
Sat two comrades old and tried, — 
One with all a father's truth, 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought. 
And his gi"ave in silence sought; 
But the younger, hi-ighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 



-^^o^. 



,(^a- 



So, whene'er I turn mine eye 

Back upon the days gone by. 

Scattering thoughts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends that closed their course before me. 

But what binds us, friend to friend, 
But that soul with soul can blend? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee; 

Take, I give it willinglj- ; 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with nie. 

Sarah Austen. 

{From the German of Ludwig Uhland.) 




NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 

"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." — Russian Proverb. 



So pr: 
Godi 



WO hands upon the breast. 
And labor's done; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 

The race is won ; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute. 
Anger at peace: " 
iiy we oittentimes, mourning our lot; 
n his kindness answereth not. 



" Two hands to work addrest 

Aye for his praise ; 
Two feet that never rest 

Walking his ways; 
Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears; 
Two lips still breathing love. 
Not wrath, nor fears: " 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees : 
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! 
Dinah Maria Mulock-Craik. 



740 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



OYER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 



.^fes 



|VER the hill to the poor-house, 1 "tn trudgiii' my 
weary way — 

¥1, a woman of seventy, and onlj' a trifle gray — 
I, w'ho am smart ajr chipper, for all the years 

I've told. 
As many another woman that "s only half as 
old. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — I can"t make it quite 

clear ! 
Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid 

queer I 
Many a step I 've taken a-toilin" to and fro. 
But this is a sort of jourue.v I never thought to go. 

What isthe use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? 
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? 
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout, 
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. 

I am wlllin' and anxious, an' ready any day, 

To work for a decent livin', and pa}' my honest way; 

For I cau earn my victuals, an' more too, I '11 be 

bound. 
If anybody only is willin' to have me roimd. 

Once I was young and han'some — I was, upon my 
soul — 

Once my cheeks was roses, my eves as black as coal ; 

And I can't rememl)er. in them da\'s, of heariu' peo- 
ple say. 

For any kind of reason, that I was in their way. 

'Taint no use of boastin", or talkin" over free. 
But many a house an' home was open then to me; 
Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men. 
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. 

And when to John I was married, sure he was good 

and smart. 
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my 

part; 
For life was all before me, an' I was young and 

strong. 
And I worked the best that I could in tryin" to o-et 

along. 

And so we worked together : and life was hard but 

With now and then a baby, for to cheer us on our 

way ; 
Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' 

neat. 
An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. 

So we worked for the cliildr'n. and i-aised "em every 

one; 
Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought 

to "ve done. 



Only i^erhaps we humored "en:, which some good folks 

condenm. 
But every couple's childr'n "s a heap the best to them. 

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! 
I 'd have died for my daughters, I 'd have died for my 

sous; 
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're 

old and graj', 
I "ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the 

other waj'. 

Strange, another thing; when ou]- boys and girls was 

grown. 
And when, exceptin' Charlej^ thej- "d left us there 

alone ; 
When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer 

seemed to be, 
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an" took him away 

from me. 



fall- 
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my 

all; 
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a 

word or frown, 
Till at last he went a courtin', andbroughta wife from 

town. 

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant 

smile — 
She was quite conceity and carried a heap o' style ; 
But if ever I tiled to be friends, I did with her, I 

know ; 
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it 

go. 

She had an edicatiou, an' that A\as good for her; 
But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' 

things too fur; 
An' I tole her once "foi'c company (an' it almost made 

her sick) . 
That I never- swallowed a grammar, or et a 'rithmatic. 

So 't was only a few days befoi-e the thing was done — 
They was a family of themselves, and I another one; 
And a very little cottage for one family will do. 
But I have never seen a house that was big enough for 
two. 

An' T never could speak to suit her, never could please 

her eye. 
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; 
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, 
WTien Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me T could 

ffo. 



(JKIEF AND TATHOS. 



741 



I weut to live with Susan, ijiit Siisau's house was 

small, 
And she was always a-hiutin' how snug it was for us 

all; 
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with 

children three, 
"Twas easy to discover that there was u't room for me. 

An' then I weut to Thomas, the oldest sou I 've got, 
For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre 

lot; 
But all the childr'n was on me — I coiild n't stand their 

sauce- — 
And Thomas said I need n't think I was comin' there 

to boss. 

An' then I wrote to Rebecca — my girl who lives out 

West, 
And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles at 

best ; 



And one of 'em said "t was too warm there, for any one 

so old, 
And t' other had au opiuiou the climate was too cold. 

So they have shirked and slighted me, and shifted me 

about — 
So they have well-uigh soured me, an' wore my old 

heart out; 
But still 1 "ve borne up pretty well, an' was n't much 

put down. 
Till Charley weut to the poor-master, an' put me on 

the town. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — my childr'n dear, 

good-bye! 
Many a night I 've watched you when only God was 

nigh ; 
And God '11 judge between us; but I will al'ays pray 
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. 

Will M. Carleton. 



GETHSEMANE. 



pN golden youth, when seems the earth 
|s A summer land of singing mirth, 
r When souls are glad and hearts are light, 
I And not a shadow lurks in sight, 
I We do not know it, but there lies 
Veiled somewhere under evening skies 
A garden which we all must see — 
The garden of Gethsemane. 

With joyous steps we go our ways. 
Love lends a halo to our days ; 
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar; 
We laugh, and say how strong we are. 
We hurry on; and hurrying, go 
Close to the border-land of woe 
That waits for you and waits for me — 
Forever waits Gethsemane. 



Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams 
Bridged over by our broken dreams, 
Behind the misty capes of years. 
Beyond the great salt fount of tears, 
The gai'den lies. Strive as you may, 
You cannot miss it in your way, 
All paths that have been or shall be 
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane. 

All those who jom-ney soon or late 
Must pass within the garden's gate; 
Must kneel alone in darkness there, 
And battle with some tierce despair. 
God pity those who cannot say, 
"Not mine but thine;" who only pray, 
"Let this cup pass," and cannot see 
The purpose in Gethsemane. 

Ella Wheelek. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 



gE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

TIow can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! 
'I?^ How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
J-l An' T sae weary, fu' o' care! 

Thou 'It bi'eak my heart, thou warbling bird. 
That wantons through the flowering thorn. 

Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed — never to return. 

Thou 'It breal^ my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
That sings beside thy mate; 



46 



For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
And wistna o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 

And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
iVnd fondly sae did I o' mine. 

Wi lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet vtpon its thorny tree; 
And my faulse luver stole my rose. 

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 

RoBEKT Burns. 



742 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



SAD IS OUR TOUTII, FOR IT IS EVER GOING. 



W 



But 

Sad 



AD is our youth, for it is ever going. 
Crumbling awaj' beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
lu current unperceived, because so fleet; 
Sad are our hopes, for thej^ were sweet in 
sowing, — 
tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat: 
are ottr joys, for they were sweet in blowing. — 



And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
And sweet are all things when we learn to prize them, 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies 
them ! 

AUBKEY De Veke. 



THE BLIND BOY. 



"IJHEAR MARY," said the poor blind boy. 
^^P '• That little bird sings very long; 
^"i ' Saj", do you see him iu his joy, 
J And is he pretty as the song? " 

"Yes, Edward, yes,'" replied the maid; 

" I see the bird on j'onder tree."' 
The poor boj- sighed, and gentlj' said — 

" Sister, I wish that I could see. 

" The flowers, you say, are very fair. 
And bright green leaves are on the trees. 

And pretty birds are singing there — 
How beautiful for one who sees ! 

" Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell; 

And I can feel the green leaf "s shade; 
And I can hear the notes that swell 

From those sweet birds that God has made. 

. " So, sister, God to me is kind. 

Though sight, alas! He has not given; — 
But tell me, are there any blind 

Among the children up in heaven! '" 



" -No, dearest Edward, there all see; 

But A\hy ask me a thing so odd! " — 
" O Mary! He 's so good to me. 

I thought I'd like to look at God." 

Ere long. Disease his hand had laid 
On that dear boy, so meek and mild : 

His widowed mother wept and prayed 
That God would spare her sightless child. 

He felt her warm tears on his face, 
And said — ' Oh ! never weep for me ; 

I 'm going to a better place. 
Where God my Savior I shall see. 

" And you 'II be there, dear Marj% too; 

But, mother, when you get up there, 
Tell me, dear mother, that 'tis you — 

You know I never saw you here." 

He spoke no more, but sweetly smiled. 

Until the flnal blow was given, 
^Vlien God took up that poor blind child. 

And opened first his eyes in heaven. 



7?r-~->e 



IN THE SEA. 



flpKHE salt wind blows upon my cheek. 
fe As it blew a year ago, 

■ '^^ - When twenty boats were crushed among 
A The rocks of Norman's woe; 

I' "J' was dark then ; 'tis light now. 
And the sails are leaning low. 

In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er. 
And find a face not his. 

And hope another tide will be 
More pitying than this; 

The wind turns, the tide turns, — 

They take what hope there is. 



My life goes on as life must go. 

With all its sweetness spilled ; 

My God, why should one heart of two 
Beat on when one is stilled'? 

Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck. 
Thy happy sparrows build. 

Though boats go do\An. men build again 
Whatever wind may blow; 

If blight be in the wheat one year. 
They trust again and sow: 

TTie grief comes, the change comes, 
The tides run high and low. 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



748 



Some have their dead, where, sweet and cahn, 
'Ihe suiiuners bloom aud go ; — 

The sea withholds my dead ; I walk 
The bar wheu tides are low, 

And wonder how the grave-grass 
Can have the heart to grow. 



Flow ou, O tinconseuting sea, 

Aud keep my dead below ; 

The night-watch set for me is long. 
But, through it all, I know, 

Or life comes, or death comes, 

God leads the eternal flow. 



HlliAM ElCH. 



JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 



gj^^NE time my soul was pierced as with a sword. 

Contending still with men untaught aud wild, 
^"^ When He who to the prophet lent his gourd 
tiT Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift, my precious flower was given, 

A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, 

When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 

With unformed laughter, musically sweet. 
How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: 

With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! 
O, in the desert, what a spring was this! 

A few short mouths it blossomed near my heart : 
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad; 

But that home-solace nerved me for my part, 
Aud of the babe I was exceeding glad. 

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying, 
(The prophefs gourd, it withered in a night!) 

And he who gave me all, my hearfs pulse trying. 
Took gently home the child of my deligbt. 

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished. 
But gradual faded from our love away : 

As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherisbed, 
Were drop by drop Avithheld, and day by day. 

My blessed Master saved me from repining. 

So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 
So beautiful He made my babe's declining. 

Its dying blessed me as its birth had done. 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, 
Gazing the while on death, without its sting. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid 
So very sweet at times our converse seemed, 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made: 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed ! 

There were two milk-white doves my wife had uour 
ished : 

And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand 
Marking how each the other fondly cherished. 

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand! 

So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying. 
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest; 



And to the uuunnurs of his sleep replying. 
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 

"T was a fair sight : the snow-pale infant sleeping. 

So fondly guardiaued by those creatures mild. 
Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping; 

Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 

Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining. 
Forsook their food, aud loathed their pretty play ; 

And OH the day he died, with sad note pining. 
One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 




And tcJ them from my baby s dimpled hand." 

His mother found it, when she I'ose. sad hearted. 

At early dawn, with sense of neariug ill; 
Aud when at last, the little spirit parted. 

The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 

The other flew to meet my sad houie-riding, 

As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 
To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding. 

Most pitifully plained — aud parted too. 

'T was my first hansel and propine to Heaven ; 

Aud as I laid my darling 'neath the sod. 
Precious His comforts — once an infant given. 

And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! 

Mrs. a. Stuart Mknteatii. 



744 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



sjiuP|HOU lingering star, ^vitll lessening ray, 
^^ That lov'st to greet the early nioru, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Marj' from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of hlissful rest? 
See'st thou tlij' lover lowly laid? 
Hear'st thou the groaus that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget, — 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of ti-ansports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thouo-ht we "twas our last! 



Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene; 
The flowers spraug wanton to be i)rest. 

The birds sang love on every spray, — 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression stronger makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 
Egbert Burns. 



ANNABEL LEE. 



g^T ^\•as many and many a year ago, 
ife In a kingdom by the sea. 

That a maiden lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Than to love, aud be loved by me. 

I was a child aud she was a child. 

Id this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her awaj' from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulchre. 

In this kingdom by the sea. 



The angels, not so happy in heaven, 

Went en\ying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling aud killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
Aud so. all the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride. 

In her sej^ulchre there by the sea. 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



-f— a-^v2/^^2yt,v-t— s- 



^?k 



AYE ARE SEVEN. 



SIMPLE child, . 
That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in eveiy limb, 
What should she know of death? 



I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



745 



She had a rustic woodlaud air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — 
Her beauty made nie glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid. 
How many may j'ou be?"' 
•■How many? Seven in all," she said. 
And wondering looked at nie. 

'•And where are they? I pray you tell." 
She answered, "Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 

•'Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother."' 

"You say that two at Conwaj^ dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid how this maj^be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
"Seven boys and girls are we; 
Two of us in the churehj^ard lie. 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid. 
Then ye are onl.y five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little maid replied, 

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door 
And they are side by side. 



"My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
I sit and sing to them. 

"And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

"The first that died was little Jane; 
In bed she moaning lay. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

"So in the churchyard she was laid; 
And, when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we played. 
My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide. 

My brother John was forced to go. 

And he lies by her side." 

"How many are you, then," said I. 
"If they two are in heaven?" 
The little maiden did reply, 
"0 master! we are seven." 

"But they are dead: those two are dead? 
Their spirits are in heaven!" 
'T was throwing words away; for still 
The little maid would have her will. 
And said. "Nay, we are seven!" 

AViLLIAM AVOKDSWORTH. 



DIRGE. 




With her lips apart. 
Softly! 
She is dying 
Of a broken heart. 

Whisper ! 
She is going 
To her final rest. 



Whisper ! 
Life is growing 
Dim within her breast. 

Gently ! 
She is sleeping ; 
She has breathed her last. 
Gently ! 
While you are weeping. 
She to heaven has passed. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



J^y-i<r-^^ 



fE are what the past has made us. The results of the past are ourselves. The 
perishable emotions, and the momentary acts of bygone 3'ears, are the scaffolding 
on which we built up the being that we are. 



74() 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 



THREE KISSES. 



^ HAVE three kisses in my life, 
^M So sweet and sacred iiuto me, 
y That now, till death-dews on them rest, 
i My lips shall ever kissless be. 

One kiss was given in childhood's hour, 
By one who never gave another; 

Through life and death I still shall feel 
That last kiss of my mother. 

The next kiss burned my lii)s for j-ears ; 
For years my wild heart reeled in bliss, 



At every memory of that hour 
When my lips felt young love's tirst kiss. 

The last kiss of the sacred three. 
Had all the woe which e'er can move 

The heart of woman ; it was pressed 
Upon the dead lips of my love. 

When lips have felt the dying kiss. 
And felt the kiss of burning love. 

And kissed the dead, then nevermore 
In kissing should they think to move. 

Hattie Tvmg Gkiswold. 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 



^UE maid ^^•ho binds her warrior's sash, 
^ With smile that well her pain dissembles, 

'tP The while beneath her drooping lash 
•t^" One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles. 



Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
The bolts of death around him rattle, 

Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 
Was poured upon the field of battle! 




" The wife who girds her husband's sword, 
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder." 



Though Heaven alone records the tear, 
And fame shall never know her story, 

Her heart has .shed a drop as dear 
As e'er bedewed the field of glory! 

The wife who girds her husband's sword. 

"Mid little ones who weep or wondei-. 
And bi-avely speaks the cheering word. 

What though her heart be rent asunder. 



The mother who conceals her grief. 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her .secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her. 
Sheds holy blood, as e'er the sod 

Received on Freedom's field of honor! 

Thomas Blchanan ]\k.m>. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



747 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 



||t3^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's 
IJiSS come haiiie, 

Aud a' the weary warld to rest are gane, 

The waes o' my heart fall iii showers frae 

my ee, 
Uiikeinpt bj' my giidemau, wha sleeps soimd 
by me. 

Yoimg Jamie lo'ed me weel, aud sought me for his 

bride, 
But saving a orowu he had uaithing else beside : 
To mak' the crown a i^ouud, my Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the erowu and the pound they were baith for me. 

He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day, 
When my faither brak his arm, aud the cow was 

stown awaj'; 
My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea, 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me. 

My faither could na work, my mither could na spin, 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I could na win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, an wi' tears in 

his ee. 
Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye nae marry me?" 



My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back, 
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack — 
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee? 
Or why was I spared to cry. Wae's me ! 

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to 

break : 
Thej- gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the 

sea, 
And so Robin Gray he was gudemau to me! 

I had na been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournful as I sat on the stane at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he. 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry thee." 

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we saj', — 
We took bvit ae kiss, and tare oursels away : 
I Avish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee, 
Oh, why was I born to saj-, Wae's me ! 

Igang like a gaist, but I care na nuich to spin; 
I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad he a sin; 
So I will do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Baknaud. 



MY LOVE IS DEAD. 



01 SIXG unto my roundelay! 
, _^ O drop the briny tear with me! 
/i^»V Dance no more at holiday; 
H Like a running river be. 
Mj' love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow tree. 

Black his hair as the summer night, 
White his neck as the winter snow. 

Ruddy his face as the morning light; 

Cold he lies in the grave below. 

My love is dead, etc. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; 

Quick in dance as thought can bo; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 

0, he lies by the willow tree. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing 

In the briered dell below ; 
Hark the death-owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead, etc. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 



Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Here upon my true-love's grave 
Shall the barren flowers be laid, 

Nor one holy saint to save 
All the coldness of a maid. 
]My love is dead, etc. 

With my hands I "11 bind the briers 

Round his holj^ corse to gre; 
Ouphant fairy, light your tires; 

Here my body still shall be. 
Mj' love is dead, etc. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn, ■ 

Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 

Bear me to your lethal tide. 
Idle! I come! my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Ciiatterton. 



748 



THE GOLDEX TKEASURY. 



OLD TIMES. 



--#^ 




WAS thirty years ago, aud uow 

AVe meet once more.'" I sighed and said. 
'■ To talk of Etou aud old times: 

But every second word is • Dead I ' " 

AVe fill the glass, aud watch the wiue 
Rise, as thermometers will do, 

Then rouse the fire into a blaze, 
Aud once more. hoys, we share the glow, 

" Do you remember Hawtrey's time? 
Pod Major, aud the way he read? 



Aud Po wis and Old Stokes? Alas! 
Our eveiy second word is ' Dead ! ' "' 

AYell, springs must have their autumns too, 
Aud suns must set as they must shine ; 

And, waiter, here, a bottle more. 
And let it be yoiu- oldest wine. 

And gather closer to the fire, 
Aud let the gas flare overhead ; 

Some day our children will meet thus, 
Aud they will praise or blame the Dead. 



OLD. 



^^Y the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
^^ Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; 
"y^f-.'' Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
ll All the landscape, like a page, perusing: 
Poor, uukuown, 
Bv the wavside. on a mossy stone. 




'• When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted " 

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; 

Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; 
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; 

Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding: 
There he sat I 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. 



Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
Xo one sympathizing, no one heeding, 

None to love him for his thin gray hair. 
And the furi-ows all so mutely i)leading 
Age and care : 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was summer, and we went to school. 

Dapper countiy lads and little maidens ; 
Taught the motto of the " Dunce's stool," — 

Its grave import still my fancy ladens, — 
"Here "s a fool! " 
It was summer, and we went to school. 

AVhen the sti-anger seemed to mark our play. 

Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. 
I remember well, too well, that day! 

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started 
AVould not staj' 
AVhen the stranger seemed to mark our play. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

Ob. to me her name was always Heaven! 
She besought him all his grief to tell. 

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven.) 
Isabel! 
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

" Angel.*' said he sadly. " I am old: 
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow: 

Yet. why I sit here thou shalt be told." 
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, 
Down it rolled ! 

'"Angel,"' said he sadly, ••! am old." 

"I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore. 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core : 

I have tottered here to look once more. 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



749 



"AH the picture now to me how dear I 
E"eii this gray old rock where I am seated 

Is a jewel worth my journey here; 
Ah, that such a scene must he completed 
With a tear! 

All the picture now to me how dear ! 

"Old stone school-house!— it is still the same : 
There 's the very step I so oft mounted ; 

There 's the window creaking in its frame, 

And the notches that I cut and counted 

For the game. 

Old stone school-house, it is still the same. 



"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, 
Eound the pasture where the flocks were grazing. 

Where, so slj', I used to watch for quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; 
Traps and trails ! 

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. 

"There's the mill that ground onr yellow grain : 
Pond and river still serenely flowing : 

Cot there nestling in the shaded lane. 
Where the lily of my heart was blowing. 
Mary Jane ! 

There 's the mill that ground our j'ellow grain. 




' There s the mill that ground our yellow grain. " 



"In the cottage yonder I was born; 

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; 
There the fields of clover, wheat and corn ; 

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; 
Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage yonder I was boi-n. 

" Those two gateway sycamores you see 
Then were planted just so far asunder 

That long well-pole from the path to free 

And the wagon to i)ass safelj' under; 

Ninety-three! 

Those two gateway sycamores you see. 

" There 's the orchard \\-here we used to climb 
When my mates and I were boys together, 

Thinking nothing of the flight of time. 

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather: 
Past its prime ! 

There 's the orchard where we used to climb. 



" There "s the gate on which I used to swing. 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable: 

But alas! no more the morn shall bring- 
That dear group around my father's table ; 
Taken wing ! 

There 's the gate on which I used to swing. 

I am fleeing, ^ all I loved have fled. 

Yon green meadow was our place for playing: 
That old tree can tell of sweet things said 

When around it Jane and I were straying; 
She is dead ! 
I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. 

" Yon white spire, a pencil on th(^ sky. 

Tracing silently life's changeful stoiy. 
So familiar to mj- dim old ej-e. 

Points me to seven that are now in glory 
There on high ! 
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. 



750 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

Guided thither bj' au angel mother ; 
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 

Sire and sisters, and my little bi-other, 
Gone to God! 
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

♦'There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; 

Bless the holy lesson! — but, ah, never 
Shall I hear again those songs of praise. 

Those sweet voices silent now forever ! 

Peaceful days ! 

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 

'• There my Mary blest me with her hand 
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing. 

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land. 
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pi'essing; 
Broken band ! 

There my Mary blest me with her hand. 

" I have come to see that grave once more. 
And the sacred place where we delighted, 

AVhere we worshiped, in the days of yore. 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core ! 

I have come to see that grave once more. 

" Angel," said he sadlj-. " I am old; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow. 
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." 

In his eye another pearl of sorrow, 
Down it rolled I 
'■ Angel," said he sadly, '• I am old." 



By the wayside on a mossy stone, 
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; 




" Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable." 

Still I marked him sitting thei'e alone, 
All the landscape, like a page, perusing; 
Poor, unknown! 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 

Kalph Hoyt. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 



fmS book is all that "s left me now, — 
i Tears will unbidden start, — 
^ With faltering lip and throbbing brow 
I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past 

Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 
SliP. dying, gave it me. 

Ah ! well do I remember those 

■\\1iose names these records bear; 
Who round the hearthstone used to close, 

^Vfter the evening praj-er. 
And speak of what these pages said 

In tones my heart a\ ould thi'ill ! 
Though they are with the silent dead. 

Here are thev living still ! 



M}- father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear; 
How calm was my poor mother's look, 

■\Mio loved God's word to hear! 
Her angel face, — I see it yet! 

"NMiat thronging memories come! 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I "ve ti'ied ; 
When all ^\•ere false, I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasm-es give 

That could this volume buy; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die ! 

Geokue p. Morris. 



GKIEF AND PATHOS. 

BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



751 



SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, And if a eona-ade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
^ There was lack of woman's nursing, there was 'i'o listen to him kindly, without regret or shame. 



7'"'^' dearth of woman's tears; 

I But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- 
l blood ebbed away, 

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what 
he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's '-There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days 



And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's 

sword and mine) 
For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Biugen on the 

Rhine. 



hand, 



gone bj' 



And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my na- You'd have known her by the merriment that 
tive laud ; sparkled in her eye ; 

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorn- 
of mine, ing, — 

For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. O friend I I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 

heaviest mourning ! 

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon 
and crowd ai'ound, be risen, 

I'o hear my mournful story, in the ])leasant vineyard My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of pris- 
gromul, on), — 

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day I dreamed I stood Avith her, and saw the j'ellow sun- 
was done, light shine 

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting Ot the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the 
sun ; Rhine. 

And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old 

m wars, — u j gaw the blue Rhine swee]3 along, — I heard, or 

The death -wound on their gallant breasts, the last of seemed to hear 

many scars; 'pjig Qerman songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet 

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's and clear- 
morn decline, ^^j (jown the pleasaut river, and up the slanting hill. 

And one had come from Bingen,— fair Bingen on the ^j^g echoing chorus sounded, through the evening 



Rhine. 

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her 

old age. 
For T was still a truant bird, that thought his home a 

cage. 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles 

fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty 

hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would. — l)ut kept my 

father's sword; 
And with boyish love I hung it wliere the briglit light 

used to shine. 
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with 
drooping head. 

When the troops come marching home again with glad 
and gallant tread 

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead- 
fast eye. 

For her brother w as a soldier, too, and not afraid to 
die; 



calm and still; 

And her glad blue ej'cs were on me, as we passed, 
with friendljr talk, 

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remem- 
bered walk! 

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — 

But we "11 meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on 
the Rhine." 

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse. — his grasp 

was childish weak — 
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased 

to speak; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life liad 

fled,— 
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! 
And the soft moon I'ose up slowly, and calmly she 

looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-fleld, with bloody cors(>s 

strewn ; 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 

seemed to shine. 
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Biugen on the 

Rhine. 

Caroline Elizabeth Sakaii Nokton. 



752 



THE GOLDEN TEE AS UK Y. 



THE LAST OF SEVEN. 



.iJP-^Y, be not anai'y. chide her not, 
lips Although the child hast erred, 
'^f^ Nor bring the tears into her eyes 
il By one ungentle word. 




' But no^v in grief she ^valks alone 
By every garden bed." 



When that sweet linnet sang, before 

Our summer roses died, 
A sister's arm was round her neck, 

A brother at her side. 

But no-w in grief she walks alone, 

By every garden bed, 
That sister's clasping arm is cold, 

That brother's voice is Hed. 




And when she sits beside mj- chair. 

"With face so pale and meek. 
And eyes bent o"er her book, I see 

The tear upon her cheek. 

Then chide her not; but whisper now . 

'•Thj' trespass is forgiven. '" — 
How canst thou frown on that pale face? 

She is the last of seven. 

Avis WiLLMOTT. 



THE VOICELESS. 

^^E count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber. 
But ()"er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic sti-ing. 

And noisy fame is i^roud to win them; 
Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 

"^VTiose song has told their hearts' sad story : 
Weep foi- the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the ci'owu of glory I 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

0"er Sappho's memory-haunted billow. 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break, and give no sign. 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven I 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



RESIGNATION. 



5|HEEE is no flock, however watched and tended. 
But one dead lamb is there I 
There is no flreside, howsoe'er defended. 
1 But has one vacant chair! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying; 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Eachel, for her children crying. 

Will not be comforted I 



Let ns be patient I These severe affiictions 

Not from the ground arise. 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad. funei-eal tapers 

^ray be heaven's distant lamps. 



GEIEF AND PATHOS. 



753 



There is uo Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysiau, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her. and keep unbroken 
The bond which nature gives. 



Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

Fo]" when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean. 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Henky Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 



eHE muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solenm round. 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn or screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust. 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, bj' battle gashed. 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing Made, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rajiture of the fight. 



Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau. 
Flushed with the triumph j'et to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
AVbo heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath. 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was "Victory or death.'' 

Long has the doubtful confiict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain. 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'T was in that hour his stern connnand 

Called' to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew. 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath had swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitjiug skj^ has wept 

Above the mouldering slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that di-ead fray. 



754 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



Sons of the Dark and Bloodj- Ground. 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your litter grave; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

So 'neath their parent turf thej* rest, 

Far from the gory field. 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, 

On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native skj' 

Smiles sadlj^ on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch bv 

The heroes' sepulchre. 



Eest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
ISTor shall j'om- glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallo^\-ed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Y"ou marble minstrers voiceless stone. 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath Ilown, 

The story how ye fell: 
Xor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Xor Time's remorseless doom. 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 

Theodore O'Hara. 




"Bring- flowers of early spring 
To deck each soldier's grave.'* 



OUR SOLDIERS' 

^TREW all their graves with flowers. 
They for their country died ; 
^flf;/ And freely gave their lives for ours. 
Their country's hope and pride. 

Bring flowers to deck each sod. 

■\Miere rests their sacred dust; 
Though gone from earth, they live to God. 

Their everlasting trust! 

Fearless in Freedom's cause 
They suffered, toiled, and bled ; 



GRAVES. 

And died obedient to her laws, 
Bj' truth and conscience led. 

Oft as the year returns. 

She o'er their graves shall weep; 
And wreathe Avith flowers their funeral urns. 

Their memory dear to keep. 

Bring flowers of early spring 

To deck each soldier's grave, 
And summer's fragrant roses bring. — 

They died our land to save. 

Jones Veky. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



755 



BEREAVEMENT. 



MAEKED when vernal meads were bright, 

And many a primrose smiled, 
I marked her, blithe as morning light 

A dimj^led three years' child. 

A basket on one tender amn 

Contained her precious store 
Of spring-flowers in tlieir freshest charm, 

Told proudly o'er and o'er. 



The summer months swept by : again 

That loving pair I met. 
On russet heath, and bowery lane, 

Th' autumnal sun had set! 

i-nd chill and damp that Sunday eve 
Breathed on the mourners' road, 

That bright-eyed little one to leave 
Safe in the Saints' abode. 




"A basket on one tender arm 
Contained her precious store.'' 



The other wound with earnest hold 

About her blooming guide, 
A maid who scarce twelve years had told. 

So walked they side by side. 

One a bright bud, and one might seem 

A sister flower half blown. 
Full joyous on their loving dream 

The sky of April shone. 



Behind, the guardian sister came. 
Her bright brow dim and pale — 

O cheer thee, maiden! in His Name, 
Who stilled .Taints' wail! 

Thou monrn'st to miss the fingers soft. 

That held by thine so fast. 
The fond appealing eye, full oft 

Tow'rd thee for refuge cast. 



75(7 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Sweet toils, sweet cares, forever gone I 
Xo more from stranger's face. 

Or startling sound, the timid one 
Shall hide in thine embrace. 

The first glad earthly task is o'er, 

^Viid dreaiy seems thy way. 
But what if nearer than before 

She Avatch thee even to-day? 

AVhat if henceforth b\' Heaven's decree 
She leave thee not alone. 



But in her turn prove guide to thee 
In ways to Angels known? 

O yield thee to her whisperings sweet : 

Awaj' with thoughts of gloom ! 
In love the loving spirits greet 

Who wait to bless her tomb. 

In lo\ing hope Avith her unseen, 

Walk as in hallowed air. 
When foes are strong and trials keen. 

Think. -What if she be there?" 

John Keble. 



THREE ROSES. 



RHREE roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed 
down, 

''W- Each with its loveliness as with a crown, 
j4 Drooped in a florist's Avindow in a toAvn. 



The third, a Avidow. Avith new grief made Avild, 
Shut in the icj- palm of her dead child. 

Thomas Bailey Alurich. 




"The third, a widow, with new grief made wild. 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child." 

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, 

Like flower on floAver that night on beauty's breast. 

The second rose, as virginal and fair, 
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair. 



HIGIILAXD MARY. 

^^sE banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomerj-, 
Green be your Avoods, and fair your rtoAvers, 

Your Avaters never drumlie I 
There sinuner first uufauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O" my sweet Highland Mary. 

HoAV SAveetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and mj- dearie; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Maiy. 

Wi' mony a a'ow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting Avas fu" tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

AVe tore oursels asunder; 
But oh! fell death's imtimely frost. 

That nipt my floAver sae early! 
NoAV green 's the sod. and cauld "s the clay 

That Avraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale noAv, those rosy lii)s 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

Tliat dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And moiddering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still Avithin my bosom's core 

Shall live mj- Highland Mary. 

ROBKKT BriJNs. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



757 



REQUIESCAT. 



Misread llghtly, she is near, 
^^ Under the snow ; 
■"Yf^ Speak gently, she can hear 
il The daisies grow. 

All her bright golden hair 
Tarnished with rust, 

ShQ that was J'ouug and fair 
Fallen to dust. 

Lily-like, white as snow, 
She hardly knew 



She was a woman, so 
Sweetly she grew. 

Coffin-board, heavy stone, 

Lie on her breast ; 
I vex my heart alone. 

She is at rest. 

Peace, peace; she cannot hear 

Lyre or sonnet ; 
All my life 's buried here — 

Heap eai-th upon it. 

OSCAK WiLUE. 




' Children would run to meet him on his way." 

THE BLIND MAN. 



4'4'^ 



p^KUT list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's dog. 
His guide for manj^ a day, now come to mourn 
The master and the friend — conjunction rare ; 
1 A man, indeed, he was of gentle sold. 
Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's Hash 
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes. 
He was a welcome guest through all his range 
(It was not wide) ; no dog would bay at him; 
Children would run to meet him on his way, 

47 



And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales : 
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait 
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship; 
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me. 
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt 
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 

James Grahame. 



758 



THE GOLDEISr TEEASUEY. 



8^^ 



®i&&. 



OUT OF THE PLAGUE-STRICKEN CITY. 

^E will go, my love, together to the golden Why vex with thoughts of dolor the peace of happy 
autumu field ; 



hours? ■■ 
Swift the lights and shadows where the aspens 
grow. 

>l This day iu wood and meadow we '11 forget ^,, • • ^ -n i -^-i i • i * ■ n ^ * 

•' , ,. , , '^ The air is thrilled with tau-d-uotes, m the rapture of 

the i)ale lips sealed ; ^, • ■ • 

*■ their smgmg ; 



Ah I mellow falls the sunshine where the 
roses blow; 



This day to love and gladness, whatever the morrows 
yield."' 
Sweet, sweet the peaceful forest where the cool 
streams flow. 

Through the dread plague-stricken city passed the 
lovers on their ^^'ay, 
Far floats the yellow banner iu tlie morning's glow : 
Through the ranks of dead and dying, where the fever- 

sinitten lay. 
Through the wailing and the horror of the fateful 
autumn day. 
Ah! God"s wrath lieth heavy where the south-winds 
blow. 

" I^ay, love, whj' gaze you l)ackward at the dead-cart 
in its round? 
Tolls the solemn death-bell, tolling long and slow ; 
Death holds the pallid city, but we "11 cross its farthest 

bound. 
And forget for one brief hour every ghastly sight and 
sound." 
List! that voice that crieth, -'Woe, ye people, 



Minor chords are sounding in the dove's plaint, soft 
and low; 
I am drunken with tlie gladness that Nature's grace is 

bringing. 
Be merry, then, O sweetheart; list the woodland cho- 
rus ringing." 
Far-off bells are tolling a requiem, sad and slow. 

She closed her heavy eyelids, laid her head upon liis 
shoulder ; 
Xevermore the dreaming of the happy long ago. 
"Alas! love, 'neath the flowers 1 see the dead leaves 

moulder. 
I am chill, so chill and weary; has the sunny day 
grown colder? '' 
Autumn leaves are falling, as the west-windi come 
and go. 



Plague-stricken? Yes, O lover, for the Yellow King 
has seized her. 
Vast the realm of shadows, where no earth winds 

blow ; 

Midst the bird songs and the clover and the fresh free 
woe; • 1 1 • 1 

air he claims her. 

Like children through the meadows W\e\ wandered, Vainlj', vainly from his power would thy frantic love 

hand in hand ; withhold her. 

Soft the mossy hillocks where the violets grow; Weep o'er sweetest flowers, killed by winter's snow. 
They gathered leaf and flower; but she wrote upon 

the sand ^^ ^^'^^ '^^' '"^^*^^^ the aspens, but e'er the first gray 

"Ay. strong is love, but stronger is Death's unsparing ^^^^ ning, 

hand" Blessed the peaceful garden where God's lilies blow. 

Sad the under voices in the river's flow. Her lovely eyes half opened, and without sigh or 

warning. 

'•Why si)eak of death. belov6d? to-day is surely ours; Her soul beyond the shadows had sprung to meet the 

Each hour holds a secret which the angels know; morning. 

Yon gracious sky above us, our feet upon the flowers; Oh the blissful morning which His ])eople know! 

Marie B. AVilliams. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 



^j^l^HEX the hours of day are numbered. 
^^Ml '^'id the voices of the uight 
%^l^ Wake the better soul that slumbered 
^i;'' To a holy, calm delight, 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted. 

And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
Shadows from the fitful firelight 

Dance upon the parlor wall; 



Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door. — 
The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the young and sti'ong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Wearv with the march of life! 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



759 



They, the holy ones and weakly, 
VV ho the cross of suft'eiiiig bore. 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more! 

And with them the being beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More tiian all things else to love me. 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep, 
Conies that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 



And she sits and gazes at me 
AVith those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended. 

Is the spirifs voiceless prayer. 
Soft rebukes in blessings ended. 

Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely. 

All my fears are laid aside 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died I 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



,;2^S^a^S^» 



THE FATE OF POETS. 



THE CRADLE. 



THOUGHT of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride, 

Of him who walked in glory and in joj^ 
Behind his plough along the mountain-side : 
By our own spirits are we deitted; 




"I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul, that perished in his pride." 



We poets in our youth begin in gladness, 
But thereof come in the end despondency and 
madness. 

William Wordsworth. 



I^OW steadfastly she "d worked at it ! 
■^ How lovingly had drest 

With all h«r would-be mother's wit 
That little rosy nest! 

How longingly she 'd hung on it! — 
It sometimes seemed, she said, 

There lay beneath its coverlet, 
A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tin}' guest, 

Ere bleak December tied; 
That ros)' nest he never prest — 

Her coffin was his bed. 

Austin Dobson. 



INTO THE WORLD AND OUT. 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; 
The children laughed so when they saw his eyes. 

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt 

He reached — a pale hand took one rose-bud out. 

"And that was all — quite all!" No, surely! But 
The children cried so when his eyes were shut. 
Sallie M. B. Piatt. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 



^HEEE is a Reaper whose name is Death, 
And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
And the flowers that grow between. 

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; 

"Have nought but the bearded grain? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give tliem all back again." 



He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves; 

It was for the Lord of I'aradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

"My TiOrd has need of these flowerets gay. 

The Reaper said, and smiled: 
"Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where He was once a child. 



760 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



•■The}' shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The llowers she most did love; 



She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

O. not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
"T was an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 

Henky Wadswokth Longfellow. 



-^'-'i'2/2^=:/2/I/z^-t — ?- 




" Touch me once more , my father.' 



LAST AYORDR. 



|1P>^EFRESH me with the bright-blue violet, 

i^^ And put the pale faint-scented primrose near, 

'4h ^°^' ^ ^^^ breathing yet : 

^^ Shed not one silly tear; 

But when mine eyes are set, 
Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier. 
And let my early grave with morning dew be wet. 

I have passed swiftly o'er the pleasant eartli ; 
ily life hatli been the shadow of a dream ; 
The joyousness of birth 
Did ever with me seem : 



!My spirit had no dearth. 
But dwelt forever by a full, swift stream, 
Lapt in a golden trance of never-failing mirth. 

Toucli me ouce more, my father, ere my hand 
Have not answer for thee ; — kiss my cheek 
Ere the blood fix and stand 
■yVhere flits the hectic streak; 
Give me thy last connnand. 
Before I lie all undisturbed and meek, 
"Wrapt in the snowy folds of funeral swathing-band. 

Henry Alkoi:i). 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



761 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 



apigKEARS, idle tears, I know not what thej' mean, 
^^ Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
'fp' Rise in the heart, aud gather to the eyes, 
J-l In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And tliinking of the days that are no more. 



Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 




"In looking- on the happy Autumn -fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more." 



Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad. so fresh, the days that are no more. 



Dear as i-emembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
O Death in Life, the daj's that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



-t— «-'W/J^^2/!v»- 



fHO ne'er his bread in sorrow ate — 

Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours 



Weeping upon bis bed hath sate — 
He knows you not, ye Heaveul}- Powers 



762 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



DEAD IN NOVEMBER. 



pOW can it shine so bright, 

The garish sun 
That shines upon oiir dead I 
Veiled though the ])ityiug stars of night, 
Xo lingering ruth this morn — not one 

Poor cloud to spread, 
AVith softened touch, its Ijrief eclipse 
Upon the cold and silent lips. 
The weighted ej-es, the solemn rest, 
The little hands upon the breast. 

Where he lies — dead ! 

These roistering winds that toss, 

In fierce-blown swirl. 
The frost-plucked autunm leaves. 
Rudely they sport with death and loss, 
Or. sinking, mock with sol)bing purl 

The heart that grieves : 
As joyous and as free as they. 
As full of life and glee as they, 
Was he, one little week ago, 
WTio lies in yonder room so low, 

My boy ! and dead ! 

The peevish crows oVrhead 

Caw on and on ; 
The winter-birds chirp clear. 
Mid pause in feast of berries red, 
Cheer.v and pert, though song-mates gone. 

And woods are sere ; 



Sun-kissed and glad the stream flows on — 
Oh God ! and all the world goes on 
Light-hearted still, the same as when 
He breathed it all — the same as then, 
And yet he's dead! 

To-morrow — and the end! 

The coffin -lid 
Will close, and o"er it we 
With tears and bursting hearts will bend, 
And think of all forever hid. 

My boy, with thee ! 
Thy sunny ways, thy kindling joy. 
Thy mind's quick reach, my bright-eyed boj'! 
Thy gracious promise unfulfilled. 
The high-set hopes we could but build. 

All with the dead! 

Oh anguish vain! There is 

Xo plea to move 
The tyrant heart of Death ; 
No respite, won with agonies 
E'en such as Love and Grief approve. 

With sobbing breath : 
Not all Earth's tears the hands could stay 
That dig his little grave to-day! 

Pity, O Christ! our eyes unseal 

To see, beyond our sad anele, 

He lives, though dead ! 

E. Hannafoku 



-se.^ 



THE CHILD'S FIEST GRIEF. 



^^|H ! call my brother back to me I 
^yf* I cannot play alone: 
i^f\ The summer comes with flower and bee — 
K Where is mj' brother gone'? 

"The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track; 
I care not now to chase its flight — 

Oh ! call my brother back ! 

" The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd 

Around our garden tree ; 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

Oh ! call him back to me ! " 

" He could not hear thy voice, fair child. 
He maj' not come to thee ; 



The face that once like spring-time smiled. 
On earth no more thou'lt see. 

'■A rose's brief bright life of joy. 

Such unto him was given ; 
Go — thou nmst play alone, my boy ! 

Th}' brother is in heaven! " 

" And has he left his birds and flowers, 

And nmst I call in vain; 
And, through the long, long summer hours. 

Will he not come again? 

" And bj^ the brook, and in the glade, 

Are all our wanderings o'er? 
Oh. while my brother with me played, 

Would I had loved him more ! " 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



: BOSO^NI empty of a heart of pain makes a lustreless life; but a bosom in which 
a heart bleeds reveals hidden virtues. 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



763 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 



j^OOE loue Hannah, 

Sitting at tlie window binding shoes. 

Faded, wrinkled. 
Sitting, stitt'liing in a niournfu) nuise. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 
Wlien tlie bloom was on the tree ; 
Spring and winter 
Haunali "s at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
"Is there from the tishei-s any news?" 
Oh her hearfs adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning 
Hannah "s at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Ilaunah 
Ben, the sunburnt lisher, gaily wooes; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-da}"^ skies are all aglow, 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is ])assing; 
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild southwester jnischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped ; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

'Tis November : 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews ; 

From Newfoundland, 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben? " 



Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views ; 

Twenty seasons — 
Never one has brought her any news. 




"0°-<5-^.o.. — 



"Still her dim eyes silently 

Chase the white sails o'er the sea." 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea ; 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcoji. 



THE CROSS. 



||HE strongest light casts deepest shade, 
i-y,-. The dearest love makes dreariest loss, 
W^ And she his birth so blest had made 
J'i Stood by him djing on the cross. 

■ Yet since not grief but joy shall last, 
The day and not the night abide. 
And all time's shadows, earthward cast. 
Are lights upon the " other side; " 

Through what long bliss that shall not fail 
The darkest hour shall brighten on! 



Better than any angel's " Hail! " 
The memory of '• Behold thy Son! " 

Blest in thy lowiy heart to store 
The homage paid at Bethlehem ; 

But far more blessed evermore, 
Thus to have shared the taunts and shame 

Thus with thy pierced heart to have stood 
Mid mocking crowds and owned him thine, 

True through a world's ingratitude, 
And owned in death by lips divine. 

Elizabeth (Rundlk) Charles. 



764 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 



THE LITTLE MOURXER. 



j'HILD. whither goest thou 
Over the suowy hill? 
The frost-air nips so keen. 
That the verv clouds are still. 



Thither go I : — keen the morning 
Bites, and deep the snow; 

But. in spite of them. 
Up the frosted hill I go." 




" Thev must be cleared this morning 
From the thick-laid snow." 



From the golden folding curtains 
The sun hath not looked forth. 

And brown the snow-mist hangs 
Round the mountains to the north. 

'■ Kind stranger, dost thou see 
Yonder church-tower rise. 

Thrusting its crown of pinnacles 
Into the looming skies? 



■• Child, and what dost thou? 

^Mien thou shalt be there? 
The chancel door is shut — 

There is no bell for prayer; 
Yestermorn and yestereven 

^let we there and prayed ; 
But now none is there 

Save the dead lowly laid." 



GRIEF AND PATHOS. 



7G5 



" Stranger, underneath that tower 

On the westei-n side, 
A happy, happy company 

In holy peace abide; 
My father, and my mother. 

And my sisters four — 
Their beds are made in swelling turf. 

Fronting the western door." 

" Child, if thou speak to them 
They will not answer thee; 

They are deep down in earth — 
Thy face they cannot see. 



Then, wherefore art thou going 

Over the snow hill? 
Why seek thy low-laid family. 

Where they lie cold and still?" 

'• Stranger, when the summer heats 

Would dry their turfy bed. 
Duly from this loving hand 

With water it is fed ; 
They must be cleared this morning 

From the thick-laid snow: — 
So now along the frosted field. 

Stranger, let me go." 

Henry Alfoku. 



BABY BELL. 



pAVE you not heard the poets tell 
^ How came the daint}- Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar : 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandej'ing out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star. 

Hung in the glistening depths of even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O'er which the white-winged angels go, 

Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
She touched a bridge of flowei'S, — those feet. 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels. 
They fell like dew upon the flowers: 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 
And thus came dainty Baby Bell 

Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves; 

Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong daj'; 
The lily swung its noiseless bell ; 

And o'er the porch the trembling vine 

Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 
O. earth was full of singing-birds 
And opening spriug-tide flowers. 
When the dainty Baby Bell 

Came to this woi-ld of ours ! 
O. Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day! 
What woman-natiu-e filled her eyes. 
What poetry within them lay! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes. 

So full of meaning, pure and bright 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more : 



Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely born : 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn; 
And for the love of those dear ej'es. 
For love of her whom God led forth 
(The mother's being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise.) — 
For love of Him who smote our lives. 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, "'Dear Christ!" — our hearts bent down 

Like violets aftei- rain. 

And now the orchards, wliich were white 
And red with blossoms when she came. 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime; 
The clustered apples burnt like flame. 
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell. 
The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 

In little Baby Bell. 
Her lissome form more perfect grew. 

And in her features we could trace. 

In softened curves, her mother's face. 
Her angel-nature lipened too : 
We thought her lovely when she came. 
But she was holj', saintly now: — 
Around her pale, angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame! 

God's hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech ; 

And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 

She never was a child to us. 

We never held her being's key; 

We coifld not teach her holy things. 
She was Christ's self in purity. 



766 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



It came upon us by degrees. 

We saw its shadow ere it fell, — 

The knowledge that our God had sent 

His messenger for Bab}' Bell. 

We shuddered \\ith unlanguaged pain, 

And all our hopes were changed to fears, 

And all our thoughts ran into tears 

Like sunshine into rain. 
We cried aloud in our belief. 
'•O, smite us gently, gentlj-, God! 
I'each us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved her, Gud can tell ; 



Her heart was folded deep in ours, 
Om- hearts are broken. Baby Bell ! 

At last he came, the messenger. 

The messenger from luiseeu lands : 
And what did daintj- Baby Bell? 
She oul}' crossed her little hands, 
She only looked more meek and fair : 
AVe parted back her silken hair, 
We wove the roses round her brow, — 
AVhite buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers! 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours! 

Thomas Bailey Aldkich. 



BEN BOLT. 



IpiOX'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
si^ Sweet Alice, Avhose hair was so bro^^•n, 
^.•'.>) Who ^^•ept with delight when you gave her a 
'«' smile. 

And trembled with fear at your frown? 
In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 

In a corner obscure and alone. 
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray. 
And Alice lies under the stone. 

Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt, 

Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
Together we've lain in the noonday shade, 

And listened to Appletons mill: 
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 

The rafters have tumbled in. 
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you 
gaze 

Has followed the olden din. 

Do yon mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
At the edge of the jjathless woods. 

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs. 
Which nigh by the doorstep stood? 



The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 

The tree you would seek in vain ; 
And where once the lords of the forest waved. 

Grows grass and the golden grain. 

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 

With the master so cruel and grim. 
And the shaded nook in the running brook, 

AMiere the children went to swim? 
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 

The spring of the brook is dry. 
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then. 

There are only you and I. 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 

They have changed from the old to the new; 
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth. 

There never was change in you. 
Twelve-months twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, 

Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, 

Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. 

Thomas Dunn English. 



wzj-W^-i. 



DECORATIOX DAY AT CHARLESTON. 



|]^|iLEEP sweetly in your humble graves, — 
'S^l Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause! 
\yi'^ Though yet no marble column craves 
Wf The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 
The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for Its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 



Behold I your sisters bring tlieir tears. 
And these nieinorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but j'our shades will smile 
More proudlj- on these wreaths to-day. 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies. 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 

Henkv Timrod. 



GKIEF AND PATHOS. 



767 




gi-eat 



THE OUTCAST. 

UT who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short 
repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? There are 
strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too 
humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too 

even for pity. 

Their wretched- 
ness excites rath- 
er horror than 
pity. Some are 
without the cov- 
erino; even of a 

few rags, and others emaciated lj^^^^**''S.! ,- 

with disease. The world has dis- '''sP'^.'ir?^^?*^'. 

claimed them; society turns its -'j4;r 'Jliyififfi/ 

back upon their distress, and has ''^P" f^^^t^^s 

given them up to nakedness and [pfe;:!^^^ 'i*J?r ' 

hunger. 

Why, why was I born a man, 
and yet see the sufferings of 
wretches I cannot relieve? Poor 
houseless creatures ! the Avorld 
will give you reproaches, but will 
not give you relief. The slightest 
misfortunes of the great, the most 
imaginary uneasiness of the rich, 
are aggravated with all the power 
of eloquence, and held up to en- 
gage our attention and sympa- 
thetic sorrow. The jioor weej) 
unheeded, persecuted by every 
subordinate species of tyranny; and every law which gives others security becomes 
an ememy to them. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 




lilipHE years back of us are full of voices — voices eloquent and pathetic. You Avho have 
^iig lived long, have stood over the grave of many an early dream. Success, when it 
came, was not what you thought it would he, and even success has often been denied you. 
You have watched by the couch of many a hope, and seen it fail and die. You have 
buried many a bright expectation, and laid the memorial wreath over many a joy. With- 
ered garlands are there, and broken rings, and vases once fragrant with flowers, and the 
white faces of those that sleep. 



768 



THE GOLDEX TREASUKY. 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 



KY the flow of the inland river. 

* Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgmeut-daj-; — 
Under the one, the Blue; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glorj'. 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gorj-. 
In the dnsk of eternity meet; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Under the laurel, the Blue: 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go. 
Lovingly laden with flowers 
Alike for the friend and the foe ; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Under the roses, the Blue; 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with au equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender. 

On the blossoms blooming for all; — 



Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment-day; — 

"Broidered with gold, the Blue ; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth. 
On forest and field of grain 
With an equal uuu-uuu- falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
The generous deed was done ; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
Xo braver battle was won ; — 
Under the sod aud the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Under the blossoms, the Blue; 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

Xo more shall the war-cry sever. 

Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 
A\Tieu they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Love aud tears for the Blue ; 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

Frajjcis Miles Finch. 




Part XII. 



^^l^ie j|0ljtlit^ at Wit^. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



-^^(5^ 




"Once the welcome light has broken, who shall say 
What the unimagined glories of the day?" 



CLEAR THE WAY. 



iigEN of thought, be up and sthTing, night and 
day, 
y(^f< Sow the seed — withdraw the curtain — cleai' the 

Men of action, aid and cheer them, as ye may! 

There 's a fount about to stream, 

There 's a light about to beam, 

There 's a warmth about to glow, 

There 's a flower about to blow; 
There 's a midnight blackness changing into graj'. 
Men of thought and men of action, clear the way! 



Once the welcome light has broken, who shall 

say 
What the unimagined glories of the day? 
What the evil that shall perish in its ray? 
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; 
Aid it, hopes of honest men ; 
Aid it, paper; aid it, tj-pe; 
Aid it, for the hour is ripe. 
And our earnest must not slacken into play. 
Men of thought 'and men of action, clear the 
way! 

771 



772 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



Lo ! a cloud "s about to vanish from the day : 

And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay. 

Lo! the right "s about to conquer: clear the ivaij ! 

With the right shall many more 

Enter smiling at the door; 



With the giant Avi'ong shall fall 

Many others, great aud small. 
That for ages long have held us for their prey. 
Men of thought and men of action, clear the watI 

Charles Mackay. 



WHAT IS NOBLE ? 



>£& 




HAT is noble? — to inherit 

Wealth, estate, and proud degree?— 
There must be some other merit 

Higher yet than these for me I — 
Something greater far must enter 

Into life's majestic span, 
Fitted to create and centre 

True nobilit\' in man. 

What is noble? — "tis the finer 

Portion of our mind and heart, 
Linked to something still diviner 

Than mere language can impart: 
Ever prompting — ever seeiug 

Some improvement yet to plan ; 
To uplift our fellow-being. 

And, like man, to feel for Man I 

What is noble? — is the sabre 
Nobler than the humble spade 
here 's a dignit}' in labor 
Truer than e'er pomp arrayed I 

He who seeks the mind's improvement 
Aids the woi-ld, in aiding mind I 

Every great commanding movement 
Serves not one. but all mankind. 



0"er the forge's heat and ashes, — 

O'er the engine's iron head, — 
Where the rapid shuttle Hashes. 

And the spindle whirls its thread: 
There is labor, lowly tending 

Each requirement of the hour, — 
There is genius, still extending 

Science, and its world of liowerl 

'Mid the dust, and speed, and clamor, 

Of the loom-shed aud the mill; 
'Midst the clink of wheel and hanmier, 

Great results are growing still I 
Though too oft. by fashion's creatures, 

^Vork and workers may be blamed. 
Commerce need not hide its features. — 

Industry is not ashamed ! 

What is noble? — that which places 

Truth in its enfranchised will. 
Leaving steps, like angel-traces. 

That mankind maj- follow still.' 
E'en though scorn's malignant glances' 

Prove him poorest of his clan. 
He 's the Xoble — who advances 

Freedom, and the Cause of Man! 

Charles Swain. 



-S^oc--.^ 



THE LABOEEPv. 



^|tAIST) up — erect ! Thou hast the form 

And likeness of thy God ! — Who more? 
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm 
Of dailj' life, a heart as warm 

And pure, as breast e'er wore. 

What then? — Thou art as true a man 
As moves the human mass among; 
As much a part of the great plan 
That with ci-eation's dawn began. 
As any of the throng. 

Who is thine enemy? The high 

In station, or in wealth the chief? 
The great, who coldly pass thee l)y. 
With proud step and averted eye? 
Xav! nurse not such belief. 



If true unto thyself thou wast. 

What were the proud one's scoi-n to thee? 
A feather which thou mightest east 
Aside, as idly as the blast 

The light leaf from the tree. 

Xo : uncurbed passions, low desires. 

Absence of noble self-respect. 
Death, in the breast's consuming fires. 
To that high nature which aspires 
Forever, till thus checked ; — 

Thfese are thine enemies — thj' worst : 

They chain thee to thy lowly lot; 
Thy labor and thy life accursed. 
O. stand erect, and from them burst. 
And longer suffer not. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



775 



Thou art thyself thine enemy : 

The great! — what better they than thou? 
As theirs is not thy will as free? 
Has God with equal favors thee 
Neglected to endow? 

True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis hut dust; 

Nor place — uncertain as the wind; 
But that thou hast, w liich, with thy crust 



And water, may despise the lust 
Of both — a noble mind. 

With this, and passions under ban, 

True faith, and holy trust in God, 
Thou art the peer of any man. 
Look up then ; that thy little span 
Of life may be well trod. 

William D. Gallagher. 




TACT A.'ND TALEIS^T. 

JALENT is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, 
grave and respectable: tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth 
sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, 
the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch; it is the interpre- 
ter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all 
obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in soli- 
tude, for it shows a man his way into the world; it is useftil in society, 
for it shows him his way through the world. Talent is power, tact is 
skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact 
knows how to do it; talent makes a man resiDectable, tact will make him 
respected; talent is Vt^ealth, tact is ready money. For all the practical 
purposes of life, tact carries it against talent ten to one. Take them to 
the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall 
produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be con- 
demned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. 
There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact ; but they are seldom 
too-ether: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces 
which are not successful. 

Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal 
rivalry; talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many 
a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. Talent 
speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world wonder 
that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the 
secret is, that it has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps ; it hits the right nail on the 
head ; it loses no time ; it takes all hints and by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is 
ready to take advantage of every wind that blows. Take them into the church. Talent 
has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers ; talent may 
obtain a living, tact will make one ; talent gets a good name, tact a great one ; talent 
convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the 
profession. 

Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds its way ; talent commands, tact is 
obeyed; talent is honored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment. Place them 
in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; 
talent is fit for employment, bitt tact is fitted for it. It has a knack of slipping into place 



774 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 



with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard-ball insinuates itself into the 
pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an 
invisible and extemporary apprenticeship ; it wants no drilling : it never ranks in the awk- 
ward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no looks of won- 
drous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexter- 
ously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air 
of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius. 



NEVER GIVE UP. 



m 



i^pEVER give up ! — it is wiser aud betier 
' ■ AIway.N to hope, than ouee to despair; 

Fling off the load of doubfs caukeriug fetters, 
And break the dark spell of tj'raunical care. 
Xever give up, or the burden may sink you. — 

Providence kindlj' has mingled the cup ; 
And in all trials and troubles bethink j'on. 
The watchword of life must be. "Never give up!"' 

Never give up ; there are chances and changes, 
Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one. 

And through the chaos, High Wisdom arranges 
Ever success, if you '11 only hold on. 



Never give up; for the wisest is boldest, 
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup. 

And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest. 
Is the stei'n watchword of "Never give up! 

Never give up, though the grape-shot may rattle, 

Or the full thunder-cloud over j'ou burst ; 
Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle 

Little shall harm you. though doing their worst. 
Never give up ; if adversity presses. 

Providence wisely has mingled the cup ; 
And the best counsel in all your distresses 

Is the brave watchword of "Never give up! "'' 



Si/,i5^,> 



THE gei^tlema:^ 



prX^HEX you have found a man, you have not far to go to find a gentleman. You 
^^MM can not make a gold ring out of brass. You can not change a Cape May 
^W^ crystal to a diamond. You can not make a o-entleman till you have first a 
■^''^=> man. To be a gentleman, it will not be sufficient to have had a grandfather. 
To be a gentleman does not depend upon the tailor, or the toilet. Blood will degen- 
erate. Good clothes are not good habits. A gentleman is just a gentle-man; no more, 
no less; a diamond polished, that Avas first a diamond in the rough. A gentleman 
is gentle. A o-entleman is modest. A gentleman is courteous. A gentleman is gen- 
erous. A gentleman is slow to take offense, as being one that never gives it. A 
gentleman is slow to surmise evil, as being one that never thinks it. A gentleman 
goes armed only in consciousness of right. A gentleman subjects his appetites. A 
gentleman refines his taste. A gentleman subdues his feelings. A gentleman deems 
every other better than himself. Sir Philip Sidney was never so much a gentleman, — 
mirror though he was of England's knighthood, — as when, upon the field of Zutphen, 
as he lay in his own blood, he waived the draught of cold spring water, that was 
brought to quench his mortal thirst, in favor of a dying soldier. St. Paul described a 
gentleman when he exhorted the Philippian Christians: — "Whatsoever things are just, 
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
report, if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." 

George W. Doane. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



775 




WANT OF DECISION 

GREAT deal of labor is lest to the world for the want of a little courage. Every 
day sends to their graves a number of obscure men, who have only remained in 
obscurity because their timidity has prevented them from making a first effort, 
and who, if thej' had only been induced to begin, would have in all probability 
gone great lengths in the career of fame. The fact is, that in doing anything in 
the world worth doing, we must not stand shivei'ing on the bank, thinking of the cold and 
danger, but jump in, and scramble through as well as we can. It will not do to be 
perpetually calculating risks and adjusting nice chances ; it did all very well before the 
flood, Avhen a man could consult his friends upon an intended publication for a hundred 
and fifty years, and live to see its success for six or seven centuries afterward ; but 
at present a man waits and doubts, and consults his brother, and uncles, and his par- 
ticular friends, till one day he finds that he is sixty-five years of age, and that he has lost 
so much time in consulting first cousins and particular friends, that he has no more time to 
follow their advice. There is so little time for over-squeamishness at present, that the 
opportunity slips away. The very period of life at which a man chooses to venture, 
if ever, is so confined that it is no bad rule to preach up the necessity, in such 
instances, of a little violence done to the feelings, and efforts made in defiance of strict 
and sober calculations. 

SiDMEY Smith. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 



mS there, for honest povei'ty, 
li That hangs his head, and a' that? 
K The coward-shive, we pass him hy, 
^ We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscui-e. and a' that, 
The rank is bnt the guinea stamp; 
The man 's the gowd for a' that. 



What though on haniely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden-gray, and a" that. 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man. for a' that; 
For a' that and a' that: 

Their tinsel show and a' that: 
The honest man, though e'er saepoor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord. 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Though hundreds worship at his woi'd, 

He 's but a coof for a' that, 



48 



For a' that and a' that, 
His riband, star, and a' that, 

The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man 's aboon his might, 
Guid faith, he mauna fa" that! 
For a' that, and a" that, 

Their dignities, and a" that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a* that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a" the earth. 
May bear the gree, and a' that, 
For a" that, and a" that. 

It 's coming yet, for a' that; 

That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

Robert BtrRNS. 



77G 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 



ODE TO DUTY 



t? 



;TERN daughter of the voice of God ! 
O Dut}'! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou who art victoiy and law 
"When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 
And ealm'st the wearj^ strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on theui; who, in love and truth, 
"Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth ; 
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; 
"Who do thy work, and know it not : 
May joy be theirs while life shall last! 
And thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
stand fast! 

Serene will he om- days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light. 
And joy its own security. 
And blest are they who in the main 
This faith, even now, do entertain: 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet tind that other strength, according to their 
need. 

I, loving freedom, and unti-ied : 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide. 
Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 



Full oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task imposed, from day to daj' ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunctions in xue wrought, 

I suiDplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose which ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong : 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power! 
I call thee ; I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh ! let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live ! 
William Wordsworth. 



A GEEAT LAWYEE. 

^1^ TRULY Great Lawyer is one of the highest products of civilization. He is a 
^li^ master of the science of human experience. He sells his clients the results of 
^^1 that experience, and is thus the merchant of wisdom. The labors of many 
^^ generations of legislators and judges enrich his stores. His learning is sufficient 
to enable him to realize the comparative littleness of all human achievements. He has 
outlived the ambition of display before courts and juries. He loves justice, law, and 
peace. He has learned to bear criticism without irritation ; censure without anger ; and 
calumny without retaliation. He has learned how surely all schemes of evil bring disaster 
to those who support them : and that the granite shaft of a noble reputation cannot 
be destroyed by the poisoned breath of slander. 

A Great Lawyer will not do a mean thing for money. He hates vice, and delights to 
stand forth a conquering champion of virtue. The good opinions of the just are precious 
in his esteem ; but neither love of friends, nor fear of foes, can swerve him from the 
path of duty. He esteems his office of counselor as higher than political place or 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



Ill 



scholastic distinction. He detests unnecessary litigation, and delights in averting danger, 
and restoring peace by wise counsel and skilful plans. The good works of the counsel- 
room are sweeter to him than the glories of the forum. He proves that honesty is the 
best policy, and that peace pays both lawyer and client, better than controversy. In a 
legal contest, he will give his client the benefit of the best presentation of whatever 
points of fact or of law may be in his power; but he will neither pervert the law, nor 
falsify the facts to defeat an adversary. The motto of his battle-flag is: Fidelity to 
the law and the facts, — semper fidelis. 

C. C. Bonne Y. 



LABOR. 






|AUSE not to dream of the future before us ; 
^^8 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come 
X o'er us; 

i Hark ! how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 
Uninterniitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
Never the ocean- wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, 
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

"Labor is woi'ship! " — the robin is singing; 
"Labor is worship! " — the wild-bee is ringing; 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper npspringiug 

Speaks to thj' soul from out Nature's great heart. 
Frona the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; 
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; 
From the small insect, the rich coral bower; 

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 

Labor is life ! 'Tis the still Avater faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth; 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
Labor is glory! — the flying cloud lightens; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : 

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in 
tune ! 



Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us. 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us. 

Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill, 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; 
Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow ; 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 

Labor is health ! Lo! the husbandman reaping, 
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping! 
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping. 

True as a siuibeam the swift sickle guides! 
Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth; 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth : 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round 

thee! 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath boimd thee! 
Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
Work — for some good, be it ever so slowdy; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor! — all labor is noble and hol.y! 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God ! 

Frances Saegent Osgood. 



ADTICE TO YOUI^G MEK 



^IJ^OUNG men, you ai-e the architects of your own fortunes. Rely upon your 
P*^ own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self-reliance, faith, 
^J'l honesty, and industry. Inscribe on your banner, "Luck is a fool, pluck is 
°'"¥^ a hero." Don't take too much advice — keep at your helm and steer your 
own ship, and remember that the great art of commanding is to take a fair share 
of the work. Don't practice too much humility. Think well of yourself. Strike 
out. Assume your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, over a rough road, 



778 THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 

and small ones go to the bottom. Eise above the envious and the jealous. Fh*e 
above the mark you intend to hit. Energ}*, invincible determination, with a right 
motive, are the levers that move the -world. Don't drink. Don't chew. Don't 
smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive. Don't read trashy novels. Don't marry 
until you can support a wife. Be in earnest. Be self-reliant. Be generous. Be 
civil. Read the papers. Advertise your business. ^Nlake money and do good with 
it. Love your God and fellow-men. Love truth and virtue. Love your country, 
and obey its laws. If this advice be implicitly followed by the young men of the 
countiy, the millennium is near at hand. 

Noah Porter. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUXG MAX SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

pELL me not, in mournful numbers. Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

^ •• Life is but an empty dream! " Be a hero in the strife! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

.1.,. _ u .. ...1 Trust no Future, ho we er pleasant! 

And thmgs are not what thej' seem. , , „ . , , . 

* •' Let the dead Past bur)- Its dead! 

Life is real! Life is earnest! Act. — act in the living Present! 

And the grave is not its goal ; Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

•■Dust thou art, to dust returuest," 



Was not spoken of the soul. 



Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
Xot enjoyment, and not sorrow. And. departing, leave behind us 

Is our destined end or way; Footprints on the sands of time; 

But to act. that each to-morrow 



Find us farther than to-daj'. 



Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o"er life's solenm main, 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Still, like muffled drums are beating ^ , , 

^ 1 ^ . ^u Let us. then, be up and doing. 

Funeral marches to the grave. „^. ■ , '■ » 

\\ ith a heart for any fate ; 

In the world's broad fleld of battle, StiU achieving, still pursuing, 

In the bivouac of Life, Leai-u to labor and to wait. 



Hexky AVadsworth Longfellow, 



--t~-<^'^l/Zj==^Zn/l^-ir~ 



TEIALS A TEST OF CHAEACTEE. 



...^AIX are all the efforts of slander, permanently to injure the fame of a good man ! 
There is a cascade in a lovelv Swiss vallev which the fierce winds catch and 



^^ scatter so soon as it pours over the summit of the rock, and for a season the 
■*■ continuit}" of the fall is broken, and you see nothing but a feathery wreath of 
apparently helpless spray ; but if 3'ou look further down the consistency is recovered, 
and the Staubbach pours its rejoicing waters as if no breeze had blown at all. Nay, the 
blast which interrupts it only fans it into more marvelous loveliness, and makes it a 
shrine of beauty where all pilgrim footsteps travel. And so the blasts of calumn}', howl 
they ever so fiercely over the good man's head, contribute to his juster appreciation and to 
his wider fame. What are circumstances, — I wonder, that they should hinder a true 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



779 



man when his heart is set within him to do a right thing ! Let a man be firmly principled 
in his religion, he may travel from the tropics to the poles, it will never catch cold 
on the journey. Set him down in the desert, and just as the palm-tree thrusts its roots 
beneath the envious sand in search of sustenance, he will manage somehow to find 
living water there. Banish him to the dreariest Patmos you can find, he will get a grand 
Apocalypse among its barren crags. Thrust him into an inner prison, and make his 
feet fast in the stocks, the doxology will reverbei'ate through the dungeon, making such 
melody within its walls of stone that the jailer shall relapse into a man, and the prisoners 
hearino; it shall dream of freedom and of home. 

William Morley Punshon. 



GRADATIM. 



fE AVEN is not reached at a single bound ; 
'^ But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 
J-l And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true, 
That a noble deed is a step toward God, 
Lifting the soul from the common sod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under our feet; 
By what we have mastered of good and gain, , 
By the pride deposed and passion slain, 

And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
When the morning calls us to life and light; 
Btit our hearts grow weary, and ere the night 

Our lives are trailing in sordid dust. 



We hope, we resolve, Ave aspire, we pray, 
And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things. 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Witigs for the angels, but feet for men! 
We borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray. 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 
But the dreams depart and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to its sunmiit round by round. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



^'e)5 



HOW TO LIVE. 



||0|E liveth long who liveth well ! 
i^ll All other life is short and vain ; 
'ff^ He liveth longest who can tell 
J-l Of living most for heavenly gain. 

He liveth long who liveth well ! 

All else is being flung away ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of true things truly done each day. 

Waste not thj^ being; back to Him 
Who freely gave it, freely give ; 

Else is that being but a dream ; 
'T is but to be, and not to live. 

Be what thou seemest ! live thy creed ! 
Hold up to earth the torch divine ; 



Be what thou prayest to be made ; 
Let the great Master's steps be thine. 

Fill up each hour with what will last; 

Buj' up the moments as they go ; 
The life above, when this is past, 

Is the ripe fruit of life below. 

Sow truth, if thou the truth wonldst reap : 
Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; 

Erect and sound thy conscience keep ; 
From hollow words and deeds refrain. 

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; 

Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright; 
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, 

And find a harvest-homo of light. 

HouATius Bona:s. 



780 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH. 



I^AY not the sti'uggle nought availeth, 
^P The labor and the wounds are vain, 
The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been thev remain. 



For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gaiu. 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent. Hooding in, the main. 



If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It may be. in you smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e"en now the flyers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 



And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly! 
But westward, look! the land is bright. 

Akthuk Hl'gh Clough. 



_SS--T!«~~-5i_ 



PEOSPERITY Aj^D ADYEESITY. 



^II^HE virtue of prosperity is temperance; the virtue of adversity is fortitude. 
^ Prosi)erity is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is the blessinof of 
the New, which carrieth the greater benediction and the clearer revelation of 
God's favor. Yet even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's hai-p, 
you shall hear as many hearse -like airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy 
Ghost hath labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of 
Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes ; and adversity is not 
without comforts and hopes. "We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more 
pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a 
dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground ; judge therefore of the pleasure 
of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly, virtue is like precious odors, 
most fragrant where they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover 
vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. 

Lord Bacon. 



HOW WE LEARN. 



^^EEAT truths are dearly bought. The common 
truth. 
Such as men give and take from day to day, 
Comes in the common walks of easj-life. 
Blown by the careless wind aci'oss our way. 

Bought in the market, at the current price. 
Bred of the smile, the jest, pei-chance the bowl. 

It tells no tale of daring, or of worth. 
Xor pierces e'en the surface of a soul. 

Great truths are greatly won. Xot found by chance. 
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream. 

But grasped in the great struggle of the soul. 
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. 



Not in the general mart, 'mid corn arid wine, 
Not in the merchandise of gold and gems. 

Not in the world's gay halls of midnight mirth, 
Not "mid the blaze of regal diadems. 

But iu the da}' of conflict, fear and grief, 
AVhen the strong hand of God, put forth in might, 

Ploughs up the subsoil of the stagnant heart. 

And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light. 

AVrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours 
Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, 

Truth springs, like harvest, from the well-ploughed 
field^ 
And the soul feels it has not wept in vain. 

HORATItS BONAR. 



THE NOBILITY OF LITE. 



781 



PRESS ON. 



^KESS on! there 's no such word as fail; 

Press nobly on! the goal is near, — 
Ascend the inonntain ! breast the gale ! 

Look npward, onwa,rd, — never fear! 
Why should"st thou faint? Heaven smiles above 

Though storm and vapor intervene ; 
That Sun shines on, whose name is Love, 

Serenely o"er life's shadowed scene. 

Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps, 

Climb boldly o'er the torrent's ai'ch; 
He fails alone who f eeblj' creeps ; 

He wins who dares the hero's march. 
Be thou a hero I let thy might 

Tramp on eternal snows its way, 
And through tlie ebon walls of night 

Hew down a passage unto (lay. 

Press on ! if once, and twice, thy feet 

Slip back and stumble, hardei- try; 
From him who never dreads to meet 

Danger and death, they 're sure to fly. 
To coward ranks the bullet speeds ; 

While on their breasts who never quail. 
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds. 

Bright courage, like a coat of mail. 



Press on ! if fortune play thee false 

To-day, to-morrow she '11 be true; 
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, 

Taking old gifts and granting new. 
The wisdom of the present hour 

Makes up for follies past and gone; 
To weakness strength succeeds, and power 

From frailty springs ; — Press on ! Press on ! 

Press on ! what though upon the ground 

Thy love has been poured out like rain? 
That happiness is always found 

The sweetest that is born of pain. 
Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms, 

A bird sings from some blighted tree; 
And in the dreariest desert, blooms 

A never-dying rose for thee. 

Therefore, press on ! and reach the goal. 

And gain the prize, and wear the crown; 
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul 

Come wealth and honor and renown. 
To thine own self be true, and keep 

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; 
Press on ! and thou shalt surely i-eap 

A heavenly harvest for thy toil. 

Park Benjamin. 



A TEUE WOMAl^. 



^|rVE ear, fair daughter of love, to the instructions of prudence, and let the precepts 
^^ of truth sink deep in thv heart: so shall the charms of thy mind add lustre to 
W the elegance of thy form; and thy beauty, like the rose it resembleth, shall 
retain its sweetness when its bloom is withered. In the spring of thy youth, 
in the morning of thy days, when the eyes of men gaze on thee with delight, and 
nature whispereth in thine ear the meaning of their looks ; ah ! hear with caution their 
seducing words; guard well thy heart, nor listen to their soft persuasions. Remember 
that thou art made man's reasonable companion, not the slave of his passion ; the end of thy 
being is not merely to gratify his loose desire, but to assist him in the toils of life, to 
soothe him with thy tenderness, and recompense his care with soft endearments. "Who 
is she that winneth the heart of man, that subdueth him to love, and reigneth in his 
breast? Lo ! yonder she Avalketh in maiden sweetness, with innocence in her mind and 
modesty on her cheek. Her hand seeketh employment, her foot delighteth not in gad- 
ding abroad. She is clothed with neatness, she is fed with temperance: humility and 
meekness are as a crown of glory circhng her head. On her tongue dwelleth music, 
the sweetness of hone}^ floweth from her lips. Decency is in all her words: in her 
answers are mildness and truth. Submission and obedience are the lessons of her life, 
and peace and happiness are her reward. Before her steps walketh prudence, and 
virtue attendeth at her right hand. Her eye speaketh softness and love; but discretion 



782 THE G-OLDEN TREASURY. 

with a sceptre sitteth on her brow. The tongue of the licentious is dumb in her pres- 
ence; the awe of her virtue lieepeth him silent. When scandal is busy, and the fame 
of her neighbor is tossed from tongue to tongue; if charity and good nature open not 
her mouth, the finger of silence resteth on her lips. Her breast is tlie mansion of 
goodness; and therefore she suspecteth no evil in others. Happy were the man that 
should make her his wife; happy the child that shall call her mother. She presideth 
in the house, and there is peace; she commandeth with judgment, and is obeyed. She 
ariseth in the morning, she considers her affairs, and appointeth to every one their 
proper business. The care of her family is her whole delight, to that alone she 
applieth her study; and elegance with frugality is seen in her mansions. The prudence 
of her management is an honor to her husband, and he heareth her praise with a secret 
delight. She informeth the minds of her children with wisdom; she fashioneth their 
manners from the example of her own goodness. The word of her mouth is the law 
of their youth ; the motion of her e3'e commandeth obedience. She speaketh, and her 
servants fly; she pointeth, and the thing is done; for the law of love is in their hearts, 
and her kindness addeth wings to their feet. In prosperity she is not puffed up; in 
adversity she healeth the wounds of fortune with patience. The troubles of her hus- 
band are alleviated by her counsels, and sweetened b}^ her endearments: he putteth his 
heart in her bosom, and receiveth comfort. Happy is the man that hath made her his 
wife ; happy the child that calleth her mother. 

KOBEET DODSLEY. 



-^ s^(i^ '^ 

THE SUPBEMACY OF A^IRTUE. 

ir^IRTUE may be assailed, but never hurt; Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 

i*S Surprised bj^ uujust force, but not inthralled; It shall be in eternal restless change 

/|y\ Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm Self-fed and self-consumed : if this fail, 

J4. Shall in the happy tiial prove most glory : The pillared firmament is rottenness. 

But evil on itself shall back recoil. And earth's base built on stubble. 

And mix uo more with goodness, when at last. John Milton 



II^DUSTEY A'N'D GEI^IUS. 

pliNDUSTRY is a substitute for genius. Where one or more faculties exist in the 
^ highest state of development and activity, — as the faeult}^ of music in Mozart, 
Ik — invention in Fulton, — ideality in jNIilton, — we call their possessor a genius. 
* But a genius is usually understood to be a creature of such rare facility of 
mind, that he can do anything without labor. According to the popular notion, 
he learns without study, and knows without learninfr. He is eloquent without prepa- 
ration, exact without calculation, and profound without reflection. While ordinary 
men toil for knowledge by reading, by comparison, and by minute research, a genius 
is sui^i^osed to receive it as the mind receives dreams. His mind is like a vast 
cathedral, through whose colored windows the sunlight streams, painting the aisles 
Avith the varied colors of brilliant pictures. Such minds mai/ exist. So far as my 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



783 



observations have ascertained the species, they abound in academies, colleges, and 
Thespian societies; in village debating clubs; in coteries of young artists, and aniono- 
young professional aspirants. They are to be known by a reserved air, excessive 
sensitiveness, and utter indolence; by very long hair, and very open shirt collars; 
by the reading of much wretched poetry, and the writing of much yet more 
wretched; by being very conceited, very affected, very disagreeable, and very useless, 
— beings whom no man wants for fi'iend, pupil, or companion. 

Henry Ward Beecher 



3-^r-^(JL 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 



p;HE night is come, but not too soon ; 
And sinking silently, 
dii,,; All silently, the little moon 

Drops clown behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love? 

The star of love and dreams? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 



Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand. 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 

But the cold light of stars ; 
I give the ilrst watch of the night 

To the red planet ^lars. 

The star of the uncouquered will, 

He rises in my breast. 
Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 

That readest this brief psalm. 
As one by one thy hopes depart. 

Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this. 

And thoii shalt know ere long, 
Know how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer and be strong. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



A HAPPY LIFE. 



i^^ilOAV" happy is he born and taught, 
' That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill! 

Whose passions not his masters are. 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Xot tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise. 
Or vice; who never understood 
How deepest M'onnds are given by ])raise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 



Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

"WTio God doth late and early pray, 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend; 

This man is freed from servile bands, 
Of hope to rise, or feai* to fall; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry AVotton. 



784 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY. 




THE DIGI^flTY OF LABOR 



HERE is a dignity in toil — in toil of the hand as well as toil of 
the head — in toil to provide for the bodily wants of an individual 
life, as well as in toil to promote some enterprise of world-wide 
fame. All labor that tends to su2:)ply man's wants, to increase 
man's happiness, to elevate man's nature — in a word, all labor that 
is honest — is honorable too. Labor clears the forest, and drains 
the morass, and makes "the wilderness rejoice and blossom as the 
rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters the seeds, and reaps 
the harvest, and grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, the 
staff of life. Labor, tending the pastures and sweei^ing the waters 
as well as cultivating the soil, provides with daily sustenance the 
nine hundred millions of the family of man. Labor gathers the gossamer web of 
the caterpillar, the cotton from the field and the fleece from the flock, and weaves 
it into raiment soft and warm and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince and the 
gray gow^n of the peasant being alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the brick, and 
splits the slate, and quarries the stone, and shapes the column, and rears not only 
the humble cottage, but the gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, and the stately 
dome. Labor, diving deep into the solid earth, brings up its long-hidden stores of 
coal to feed ten thousand furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy the winter's 
cold. 

Labor explores the rich veins of deeply-buried rocks, extracting the gold and 
silver, the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thousand 
shapes for use and ornament, from the massive pillar to the tiniest needle, from 
the ponderous anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty fly-wheel of the steam- 
engine to the polished purse-ring or the glittering bead. Labor hews down the 
gnarled oak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the 
deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tempest to bear to our 
shores the produce of every clime. 

Labor, laughing at difficulties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy 
swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid mountain with its dark 
tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and while linking together with its iron 
but loving gras}:) all nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal sense, the ancient 
prophecy, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be 
brought low;" labor draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretching it from 
city to cit}', from province to province, through mountains and beneath the sea, 
realizes more than fancy ever fabled, Avhile it constructs a chariot on which speech 
ma}^ outstrip the wind, and compete -with the lightning, for the telegraph flies as 
rapidly as thought itself. 

Labor, a mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he 
looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation; then waving his wonder- 
working wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests ; those barren moun- 
tain-slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace blazes ; the anvil rings ; the busy 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



785 



wheel whirls round; the town appears; the mart of commerce, the hall of science, 
the temple of religion, rear high their lofty fronts ; a forest of masts, gay with varied 
pennons, rises from the harbor; representatives of far-off regions make it their 
resort ; Science enlists the elements of earth and heaven in its service ; Art, awaken- 
ino-, clothes its strength with beauty; Civilization smiles; Liberty is glad; Humanity 
rejoices ; Piety exults ; for the voice of industry and gladness is heard on every 
side. 

Working men, walk worthy of your vocation! You have a noble escutcheon; 
disgrace it not. There is nothing really mean and low but sin. Stoop not from 
your lofty throne to defile yourselves by contamination with intemperance, licentious- 
ness, or any form of evil. Labor, allied with virtue, may look up to Heaven and 
not blush; while all wordly dignities, prostituted to vice, will leave their owner 
without a corner of the universe in which to hide his shame. You will most success- 
fully prove the honor of toil by illustrating in your own persons its alliance with 
a sober, righteous, and godly life. Be ye sure of this, that the man of toil, who 
works in a spirit of obedient, loving homage to God, does no less than cherubim 
and seraphim in their loftiest flights and holiest songs. 

Newman Hall. 



^^ 



-&^s~^ 



HEARD ARE THE VOICES. 



HJ^HE future hides in it 
^ Gladness and sorrow; 
'0-'' We press still thorough — 
Naught that abides in it 
Dauuting us — onward. 

And solemn before us, 
Veiled, the dark portal, 
Goal of all mortal; 
Stars silent rest o'er us ! 
Graves under us, silent! 

While earnest thou gazest. 
Comes boding of terror; 
Come phantasm and error, 



Perplexing the bravest 
With doubt and misgiving! 

But heard are the voices, 

eard are the sages — 
The world and the ages : 
"Choose well; your choice is 
Brief, and yet endless ; 

Here eyes do regard you 
In Eternity's stillness; 
Here is all fulness. 
Ye brave, to reward you ; 
Work, and despair not!"' 

Thomas Carlyle. 

(Translated from Goethe.) 



THE EI^DS OF LIFE. 



Ilil^ALUE the ends of life more than its means 



w^atch ever for the soul of good in 

thino;s evil, and the soul of truth in things false, and beside the richer influence 

'^ff*^ that will flow out from your life on all to whom you minister, you will do some 

J'^' thing to help the solution of that unsolved problem of the human mind and 

heart, the reconciliation of hearty tolerance with strong, positive belief. 

Phillips Brooks. 



p MAN should never be ashamed to own that he has been in the wrong, which is but 



^^ saying in other words that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday 



786 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 



f^llj^Y mind to me a kingdom is, 
|?^E^ Such perfect joy tlierein I And. 
^>&fi0 That it excels all other bliss 
V That God or nature hath assigned : 

Though much I want that most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely port, nor wealthy store, 

Nor force to win a victory ; 
No wily wit to salve a sore. 

No shape to win a loving eye; 
To none of these I yield as thrall. 
For why, my mind despise them all. 

I see that plenty surfeits oft, 
And hast}' climbers soonest fall; 

I see that such as are aloft, 
Mishap doth threaten most of all; 

These get with toil, and keep with fear : 

Such cares mv mind can never bear. 



1 press to bear no haughty sway; 

I wish no more than may suttice ; 
I do no more than well I ma}'. 

Look what I want my mind supplies; 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king. 
My mind's content with anything. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
Nor grudge not at another's gain ; 

No worldly waves my mind can toss; 
I brook that is another's bane; 

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease. 
And conscience clear my chief defence; 

I never seek by bribes to please. 
Nor by desert to give offence ; 

Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
Would all do so as well as 1 1 

Sir Edward Dyer. 



SUCCESS IX LIFE. 



jlpAKE earnestly hold of life, as capacitated for and destined to high and noble 
1^^ purpose. Study closely the mind's bent for labor or a profession. Adopt it 
'^f^ early and pursue it steadily, never looking back to the turning furrow, but 
J'i forward to the ground that ever remains to be broken. Means and ways are 
abundant to every man's success, if will and actions are rightly adapted to them. Our 
rich men and our great men have carved their paths to fortune, and by this internal 
principle — a principle that cannot fail to reward him who resolutel}^ pursues it. To 
sigh or repine over the lack of inheritance is unmanly. Every man should strive to be 
creator instead of inheritor. He should bequeath instead of borrow. He should be 
conscious of the power in him, and fight his own battles with his own lance. He should 
feel that it is better to earn a crust than to inherit coffers of gold. When once this 
spirit of self-reliance is learned, every man will discover within himself the elements 
and capacities of wealth. He will be rich, inestimably rich in self-resources, and can 
lift his head proudly to meet the noblest among men. 

^ — , s^sz^E^o — ^ — ~- 



f?£ MY lord, lie not idle: 



HONORABLE EMPLOYMENT. 



_ _ 'J'he chiefest action for a man of great spirit 
'tl'" Is never to be out of action. We should think; 
il The soul was never put into the body. 

Which lias so many i-are and curious pieces 

Of mathematical motion, to stand still. 



Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds : 

In the trenches for the soldier: in the wakeful study 

For the scholar; in the furrows of the sea 

For men of our profession : of all which 

Arise and spring up honor. 

John Webster. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



787 




PEIDE OF BIRTH. 



HAT matter is it of whom any one is descended, that is not of ill 
fame; since 'tis his own virtue that must raise, or vice depress him? 
An ancestor's character is no excuse to a man's ill actions, but an 
aggravation of his degeneracy; and, since virtue comes not by gener- 
ation, I neither am the better nor the worse for ni}^ forefather: to 
be sure, not in God's account; nor should it be in man's. Nobody 
would endure injuries the easier, or reject favors the more, for coming 
by the hand of a man well or ill descended. I confess it were greater 
honor to have had no blots, and with an hereditary estate to have had 
a lineal descent of worth; but that was never found; no, not in the 
most blessed of families upon earth ; I mean Abraham's. To be 
descended of wealth and titles, fills no man's head with brains or heart 
with truth ; those qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, then, and most 
condemnable pride, for a man of bulk and character to despise another of less size in 
the world, and of meaner alliance, for want of them; because the latter may have the 
merit, where the former has only the effects of it in an ancestor: and though the 
one be great by means of a forefather, the other is so too, but 'tis by his own; then, 
pray, which is the bravest man of the two? 

" O," says the person proud of blood, " it was never a good woi'ld since we 
have had so many upstart gentlemen!" But what should others have said of that 
man's ancestor, when he started first up into the knowledge of the world. For he, and 
all men and families, ay, and all states and kingdoms too, have had their upstarts, that 
is, their beginnings. This is like being the True Church, because old, not because 
good ; for families to be noble by being old, and not by being virtuous. No such 
matter: it must be age in virtue, or else virtue before age; for otherwise a man 
should be noble by means of his predecessor, and yet the predecessor less noble than 
he, because he was the acquirer ; which is a paradox that will puzzle all their heraldry 
to explain. Strange that they should be more noble than their ancestor, that got their 
nobility for them ! But if this be absurd, as it is, then the upstart is the noble man; 
the man that got it by his virtue: and those only are entitled to his honor that are 
imitators of his virtue ; the rest may bear his name from his blood, but that is all. 
If virtue, then, give nobility, which heathens themselves agree, then families are no 
longer truly noble than they are virtuous. And if virtue go not by blood, but by the 
qualifications of the descendants, it follows, blood is then of more than ordinary virtue, 
whose examples have given light to their families. And it has been something natural 
for some of their descendants to endeavor to keep up the credit of their houses in 
proportion to the merit of their founder. And, to say true, if there be any advantage 
in such descent, 'tis not from blood, but education: for blood has no intelligence in it, 
and is often spurious and uncertain ; but education has a mighty influence and strong bias 



upon the affections and actions of men. 



William Penn. 



788 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



THE ELIXIR. 



^iTrEACH me. my God aud Kiug, 
yiy lu all thiugs thee to see, 

•,i; u^' Aud what I do in any thing, 

Tjf To do it as for thee : 

Xot rudely as a beast, 
To ruuiie into aii action: 

But still to make thee prepossest, 
And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glasse, 

On it ma.v stay his eye; 
Or. if he pleaseth. tlirough it passe. 

And then the heaven espie. 



All may of thee partake : 

Xothiug can be so mean, 
Which with his tincture (for thy sake) 

"Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant with this clause 

Makes drudgerie divine : 
"Who s^veeps a room as for thy laws, 

Makes that and th' action line. 

This is the famous stone 

That turneth all to gold : 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for lesse be told. 

Geokge Herbert. 



Ns^H^s 




THE MOEAJLITY OF MAiN^IS-EES. 

AXXERS easily aud rapidly mature iuto morals. As childhood advauces to man- 
hood, the transition from bad manners to bad morals is almost imperceptible. 
^TSfr" Vulgar and obscene objects before the mind, engender impure images in the 
Ji imagination and make unlawful desires prurient. From the prevalent state of the 
mind, actions proceed as water rises from a fountain. Hence, what was originally a word 
or phrase becomes a thought, is meretriciously embellished b}' the imagination, is inflamed 
into a vicious desire, gains strength and boldness by alwajs being welcome, until at last, 
under some urgent temptation, it dares, for once, to put on the visible form of action; 
it is then ventured upon again and again, more frequently and less warily, until repetition 
forges the chains of habit ; and then language, imagination, desire and habit bind their 
victim to the prison-hoitse of sin. In this way profane language wears away the reverence 
for things sacred and holy; and a child who has been allowed to follow, and mock 
and hoot at an intemperate man in the sti'eets is far more likely to become intemperate 
himself than if he has been accustomed to re<rard him w ith pity, as a fallen brother, and 
with sacred abhorrence, as one self-brutified or demonized. So, on the other hand, 
purity and chasteness of language tend to preserve jiurit}' and chasteness of thought 
and of taste ; they repel licentious imaginings ; they delight in the unsullied and the 
untainted, and all their tendencies are on the side of virtue. 

Horace Maxx. 

.4^ ^'Sr-fi ^ 



THE AIM OF LIFE. 



E live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not 
breaths ; 
"7^A\ In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 

Li ^^6 should count time by heart-throbs. He 
most lives 
"Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. 



And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest: 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
"Wliose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 
Life is but a means unto an end: that end. 
Beginning, mean, aud end to all things — God, 
The dead have all the glory of the world. 

Philip James Bailey. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



789 



BLESSED IS HE. 



^^LESSED is the mau whose heart and hauds are 
^P pure! 

■^1* He hath uo sickuess that he shall not cure, 
1 No sorrow that he may not well endure : 
His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure. 

Oh, blessed is he who ne'er hath sold his soul, 
Whose will is perfect, and whose word is whole, 

^a— 5'^ 



Who hath not paid to common sense the toll 
Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control! 

Through clouds and shadows of the darkest night 
He will not lose a glimmering of the light, 
Nor, though the sun of day he shrouded quite. 
Swerve from the narrow path to left or right. 

John Aldington Symonds. 




LABOR AlsTD POVERTY. 



WO men I honor, and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman, that with 
earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her 
man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse, wherein, not- 
withstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre 
of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, 
besoiled, with its rude intelligence ; for it is the face of a man living man- 
like. O, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we 
must pity as well as love thee ! Hardly-entreated brother ! For us 
was thy back so bent; for us were th}^ straight limbs and fingers so 
deformed. Thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting 
our battles wert so marred. For in thee, too, lay a God-created form, 
but it was not to be unfolded ; incrusted must it stand with the thick 
adhesions and defacements of labor; and thy body, like thy soul, was not 
to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on ; thou art in thy duty, be out of it 
who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable — for daily bread. 

A second man I honor, and still more highly ; him who is seen toiling for the spirit- 
ually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty; 
struggling towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or byword, through all his out- 
ward endeavors, be they high or low? Highest of all when his outward and his inward 
endeavor are one; when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired 
thinker, that with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us ! If the poor and hum- 
ble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he 
may have light and guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I 
honor; all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth. 

Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united; and he that 
must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. 
Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be 
met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself ; thou wilt see the splendor of 
heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great dark- 
ness. 

It is not because of his toils that I lament for the poor. We must all toil or steal 
(howsoever we name our stealing), which is worse; no faithful workman finds his task a 
pastime. The poor is hungry and athirst, but for him also there is food and drink; he is 



790 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



heavy laden and weary, but for him also the heavens send sleep, and of the deepest. In 
his smoky cribs, a clear dewy heaven of rest envelops him, and titful glitterings of cloud- 
skirted dreams. But what I do mourn over is, that the lamp of his soul should go out ; 
that no ray of heavenly, or even of earthl}' knowledge should visit him; but only in the 
haggard darkness, like two spectres, Fear and Indignation. Alas I while the body stands 
so broad and brawny, must the soul lie blinded, dwarfed, stupefied, almost annihilated? 
Alas ! was this, too, a breath of God, bestowed in heaven, but on earth never to be un- 
folded? That there should one man die ignorant, who had capacity for knowledge, this 
I call a tragedy, were it to happen more than tw'enty times in the minute, as by some 
computations it does. 

Tho^ias Carlyle. 



REAPER OF LIFE'S HARVEST.* 



es^ 



|0, reapers of life's harvest ! 

Why stand with rusted blade 

'Tr^ Until the uight draws round thee 
J4. And the day begins to fade? 

Why stand ye idle, waiting 
For reapers more to come ; 

The golden morn is passing, 
"Wliy sit ye silent, dumb? 

Thrust in your sharpened sickle 
And gather in the grain : 

The night is fast approaching. 
And noon will come again. 



The Master calls for reapers, 
And shall He call in vain? 

Shall sheaves lie there ungathered, 
And waste upon the plain? 

Mount up the heights of wisdom, 
And crush each error low ; 

Keep back no words of knowledge 
That human hearts should know. 

Be faithful to thy mission 
,Iii service of thy Lord, 
And then a golden chaplet 
Shall be thy just reward. 



DOIS^T BE DISCOURAGED. 

<^gi^' a man loses his property at thirty or forty years of age, it is only a sharp dis- 
cipline generally, by which later he comes to large success. It is all folly for a 
man or woman to sit down in mid-life discouraged. The marshals of Napoleon 
came to their commander and said, " We have lost the battle and we are being 
cut to pieces." Napoleon took his watch from his pocket, and said: "It is only two 
o'clock in the afternoon. You have lost the battle, but we have time to win another. 
Charge upon the foe!" Let our readers who have been unsuccessful thus far in the 
battle of life not give up in despair. With energy and God's blessing they may yet 
win a glorious victory. 

EARTHLY IXFLUEXCE. 



^pT is a high, solemn, almost a\vful thought for every individual man, that his earthly 
i*5 influence, which has a commencement, will never, through all ages, have an end! 
What is done is done, has already blended itself with the boundless, ever-living, 
ever-working universe, and will work there for good or evil, openly or secretly^ 
throughout all the time. The life of ever}' man is as the well-spring of a stream, whose 



♦Favorite hvinn of President (iarficld. 



THE NOBILITY OF LIFE. 



791 



small beginnings are indeed plain to all, but whose coui'se and destination, as it winds 
through the expanses of infinite years, only the Omniscient can discern. Will it mingle 
with the neighboring rivulets as a tributaiy, or receive them as their sovereign? We 
know not: only in either case we know its path is to the great ocean; its waters, 
were they but a handful, are here and cannot be annihilated or permanently held. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



AYHAT WAS HIS CREED? 



'Religion relates to life, and the life of relig^ion is to do good." — Swedenhorg , 



pE left a load of anthracite 

In front of a poor woman's door, 
When the deep snow, frozen and white, 
Wrapped street and square, mountain and 
moor. 
That was his deed. 

He did it well. 
"What was his creed?" 
I cannot tell. 

Blessed "in his basket and his store," 

In sitting down and rising up ; 
When more he got, he gave the more, 
Withholding not the crust and cup. 
He took the lead 

In each good task. 
"What was his creed?" 
I did not ask. 

His charity was like the snow, 

Soft, white, and silent in its fall; 
Not like the noisy winds that blow 
From shivering trees the leaves, — a pall 
For flowers and weed. 

Drooping below. 
"What was his creed?" 
The poor may know. 



He had great faith in loaves of bread 
For hungry people, young and old, 
Hope he inspired; kind words he said 
To those he sheltered from the cold. 
For we should feed 

As well as pray. 
"What was his creed?' 
I cannot say. 

In words he did not put his trust; 

His faith in words he never writ; 
He loved to share his cup and crust 
With all mankind who needed it. 
In time of need 

A friend was he. 

"What was his cree 

He told not me. 

He put his trust in heaven, and he 

Worked well with hand and head ; 
And what he gave in charitj' 
Sweetened his sleep and dailj- bread. 
Let us take heed. 
For life is brief. 
"What was his creed?" 
What his belief ? 



o^ THE edl"catio:n" of a family. 

^tEING thy children up in learning and obedience, yet without outward austerity. 
k( Praise them openly, reprehend them secretly. Give them good countenance and 



convenient maintenance according to thy ability, otherwise thy life will seem their 
bondage, and what portion thou shalt leave them at thy death, the}' will thank 
death for it and not thee. And I am persuaded that the foolish cockering of some 
parents, and the over-stern carriage of others, causeth more men and women to take ill 
courses than their own vicious inclinations. Marry thy daughters in time, lest they 
marry themselves. 

Lord Burleigh. 

49 




792 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY, 



A RHYME OF LIFE. 



life be as a flame that death doth kill, 
Buru. little caudle, lit for nie. 
With a pure flaine. that I inaj- rightly see 
To word mj" song, aud utterlj- 
God's plan faimi. 

If life he as a flower that blooms and dies. 
Forbid the cunning frost that slays 
"With Judas kiss, and trusting love betravs 



Forever may mj' song of praise 
Untainted rise. 

If life be as a voj^age, foul or fair. 
Oh, bid me not my banners furl 
For adverse gale, or wave in augrj' whirl. 
Till I have found the gates of pearl, 
And anchored thei-e. 

Charles Warren Stoddard. 



-^^■'I/ZrafSA--— »- 



INDUSTRY 



TjHE wa}' to wealth is as plain as the way to market. It depends chiefly on two 
^ife words, industrj' and frugality ; that is, w aste neither time nor money, but make 
^^p the best use of both. "Without industrj' and frugality, nothing will do, and with 
"^ them everything. Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all eas}^ ; and he 
that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night, while 
laziness travels so slowly that poverty soon overtakes him. Industr}^ need not wish, 
and he that lives upon hopes will die fasting. There are no gains without pains ; then 
help, hands, for I have no lands; or if I have, they are smartly taxed. He that hath a 
trade hath an estate, and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honor; but 
then the trade must be worked at, and the calling followed, or neither the estate nor the 
office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall never starve; 
for, at the working-man's house, hunger looks in, but dares not enter. Xor will the 
bailiff or the constable enter, for industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them. 
Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ; and since thou art not sure of a 
minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure is time for doing something useful ; this 
leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for a life of leisure and 
a life of laziness are two thins:s. 



Benja3iix Franklin. 



-'-''I'Z/S^s^S/Sar-r-J- 




MY WORK. 



ASTER! to do great work for thee, my hand 
Is far too weak. Thou givest what may suit 
2525^ Some little chips to cut with care minute. 
Or tint, or grave, or polish. Others stand 
Before their quarried marble, fair aud grand. 
And make a life-work of the great design 
Which thou hast traced; or, manj'-skilled. combine 



To build vast temples, gloriously planned. 
Yet take the tiny stones which I have wrought. 

Just one by one. as they were given by thee. 
Not knowing what came next in thy wise thought. 
Set each stone by thy master-hand of grace. 

Form the mosaic as thou wilt, for me. 
And in thy temple-pavement give it place. 

Frances Ridley Havergal. 



Part XII I. 



^i^^ WMtv Wnnh. 



^)C^i^'G)/>'^' 



I 



THE BETTER LAND. 




"The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starn- nis^ht 
Are beautiful and fair.*' 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY. 



Kl-IERE was a time when meadow, grove and stream, 

The earth, and every common sight, 
4% To me did seem 

* Apparelled in celestial light. 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath heen of yore :— 
Tarn whereso'er I may, 
Bjr night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no moi-e. 



The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look ronnd her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beantifnl and fair; 
The snnshine is a glorious birth, 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

795 



796 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



Now, while the birds thus sin^ a joyous song. 
And while the j'ouiig lambs bound 
As to the tabor"s sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumxjets from the steep : 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollitj', 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
shepherd-boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal. 
The fullness of yom- bliss— I feel, I feel it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
WTiile Earth itself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning, 
And the children are culling, 

On ever.y side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sim shines warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm; 

1 hear, I hear, \vith joy I hear, 

— But there 's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon— 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar: 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But ti'ailing clouds of glorj'. do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing bo}'. 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. 

He sees in it his joy; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 

And by the ^^sion splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 



At length the man perceives it die awaj% 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 

The homelj' nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child-her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
Ajid that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size I 
See where mid work of his own hand he lies. 
Fretted bj^ sallies of his mothers' kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife' 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part: 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage," 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensitj-; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thj' heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, readest the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever b}' the eternal mind, — 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest I 

On whom those truths do rest 
"\^liich we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave : 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day. a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put bj^; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
^Vhj with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live; 



THE BETTER LAND. 



797 



That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of chiidhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hoije still fluttering in his breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanlvs and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Movijig about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did ti-emble like a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy I'ecollections, 
Which, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are j'et a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence I truths that wake. 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man, nor boy. 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Then siiig, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sj'mpathy 

Wliich, having been, must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Think not of any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth. 



o>«X^SOo^.- 



THE DISCOVERER. 



Ip HAVE a little kinsman 
i^ Whose earthly summers are but three, 
X And yet a voyager is he 
X- Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
f Than all the peers together! 
He is a brave discoverer. 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where'the noiseless surges roll. 
Aye, he has traveled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dai-k. 
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 



Suddenly in his fair young hour, 
Came one who bore a flower 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command : 
"Henceforth thou art a rover! 
Thou must make a voyage far. 
Sail beneath the evening star, 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard ; 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answei' well 



798 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY, 



What the little one haf? found 
Since he left us. outward-bound! 
Would that he might return I 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skj'ey roadways part. 
Hush ! does not the bab}' this way bring. 
To lay beside this severed curl, 
Some stariy offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl? 

Ah. no ! not so ! 
We maj' follow on his track, 
But he comes not back. 



And j^et I dai'e aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know'. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years; 
More than in the groves is taught 
Or from furthest Indies brought ; 
He knows, perchance, how spirits fare — 
"VMiat shapes the angels wear. 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach — 

And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 
Edmund Clarence Stedmajs. 



~^~^^</Zh=^'l/l/i^~tr~ 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 



|0W shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
fffl^' When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ; 
My name on earth was ever in thy praj'er, 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind. 

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere. 
And larger movements of the unfettered mind. 

AVilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past. 
And meeklv with mv harsher nature bore. 



And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last. 
Shall it expire with life and be no more? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 
A^^■ait thee there ; for thou hast bowed thj' will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell 
Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; 

And wrath hath left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name. 

The same fair, tho\ightful brow, and gentle eye. 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? 

William Cullen Bryant. 



TITEEE IS KO DEATH. 



;HERE is no death! The stars go down 
To rise upon some fairer shore. 
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown 
Thej' shine forevermore. 

There is no death. The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or melloAv fruit 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

The granite rocks disorganize 

To feed the hungry moss they bear; 

The forest leaves drink daily life 
From out tlie viewless air. 



There is no death; the leaves may fall. 
The flowers may fade and pass away — 

ITiey only A\ait through wintry hours 
The coming of the Ma^-. 

There is no death ! An angel form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; 

He bears oiu- best-loved things away. 
And then we call them "dead.'' 

He leaves our hearts all desolate — 
He jihicks om- faii'est, sweetest flowers; 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 



THE BETTEE LAND. 



799 



The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones 
Miide glad this scene of sin and strife, 

Sings now in everlasting song, 
Amid the tree of life. 

And where he sees a smile so hi-ight. 
Of hearts too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light, 
To dwell in Paradise. 



Born into that undying life. 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome theui — the same 
Except in sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen, 
The dear immortal spirits ti-ead ; 

For all the boundless Universe 
Is life— there are no dead. 

J. L. McCreery. 



3-^r-@_ 



"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." 



^H, deem not they are blest alone 

■\Vhose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
^f^ The Power who pities man has shown 
J-i A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunuy rest 
For eveiy dark and troubled night ; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 



And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brightei-, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart. 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a jDierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear. 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



3-06~^<2_ 



THE MARINER'S HYMN. 



\ 



IgAUNCH thy bark, mariner! 
a^* Christian, God speed thee! 
■^■^ Let loose the rudder-bauds — 
I Good angels lead thee ! 
1 Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily; 
Christian, steer home! 

Look to the weather-bow. 

Breakers are round thee; 
Let fall the plummet now. 

Shallows maj^ ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there! 

Hold the helm fast! 
So^- let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

'* What of the night, watchman? 

"WTiat of the night?" 
"Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet — all 's right." 



Be wakefid, be vigilant — 

Danger may be 
At an hoiu- when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold — 
Hoist up the merchandise. 

Heave out thy gold; 
There — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurrah! the harbor 's near — 

1^0 ! the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail j^et 

At inlet or island; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the highland; 
Ci'owd all thy canvas on. 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian, cast anchor now. 

Heaven is thy home ! 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 



800 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUKY. 



ABIDE WITH US: FOR IT IS TOWARD EVENING. 



a^^Ks 



^ni-HE tender light is fading where 
^^ We pause and linger still. 
^ And through the dim and saddened air 
We feel the evening chill. 



# 



Long hast Thou journeyed with us, Lord. 

Ere we thy face did know; 
Oh. still Thy fellowship afford. 

While dark the shadows grow. 

For passed is many a beauteous field 

Beside our morning road ; 
And many a fount to us is sealed, 

That once so fi-eshly flowed. 

The splendor of the noontide lies 

On other paths than ours; 
The dews that lave yon fragrant skies 

Will not revive our flowers. 

It is not now as in the glow 
Of life's impassioned heat, 



When to the heart there seemed to flow 
All that of earth was sweet. 

Something has faded — something died, 

AVithout us and within ; 
We more than ever need a guide, 

Blinded and weak with sin. 

The weight is heavy that we hear, 
Our strength more feeble grows; 

Weary with toil, and pain, and care, 
We long for sweet repose. 

Stiiy with us. gracious Saviour, stay 
While friends and hopes depart; 

Fainting, on Thee we wish to lay 
The burden of our heart. 

Abide with us, dear Lord, remain 

Our Life, our Truth, our AVay, 
So shall om- loss be turned to gain — 

jSTight dawn to endless daJ^ 

Horatio Xelson Powers. 




SHALL WE MEET AGAK^ ? 

F^N seldom think of the shadow that falls across their own path, hiding forever from 

--^ their eves the traces of the loved ones, whose livino: smiles Mere the sunlight of 

i|?'^ their existence. Death is the great antagonist of hfe, and the cold thought of the 
s|i tomb is the skeleton of all feasts. We do not want to go through the dark valley, 
^ although its passages may lead to Paradise; and, with Charles Lamb, we do not 
want to lie down in the muddy grave even with kings and princes for our bed-fellows. But 
the fiat of nature is inexorable. There is no appeal of relief from the great law which 
dooms us to dust. We flourish and we fade as the leaves of the forest, and the flower that 
blooms and withers in a day has not a frailer hold upon life than the mightiest monarch 
that ever shook the earth with his footsteps. Generations of men appear and vanish as the 
grass, and the countless multitude that throngs the world to-day will to-morrow disappear 
as the footsteps on the shore. In the beautiful drama of Ion, the instinct of immortality, 
so eloquently uttered by the death-devoted Greek, finds a deep response in every thoughful 
soul. When about to yield his 3'oung existence as a sacrifice to fate, his beloved Clemanthe 
asks if they shall not meet again, to which he replies: "T have asked that dreadfitl ques- 
tion of the hills that look eternal — of the streams that flow forever — of the stars among 
whose fields of azure my raised spirit hath walked in glory. All were dumb. But while 
I gaze upon thy face, I feel that there is something in the love that mantles through its 
beauty that cannot wholly perish. We shall meet again, Clemanthe." 

Geokge D. Pkextice. 



THE BETTER LAXD. 



801 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 



Klfet^ITH tlie same letter, heaven and home begin, 
^IPIIJ And the words dwell together in the mind; 
^^^ For thej' who would a home in heaven win 
■^^ Must first a heaven in home begin to find. 
^ Be happy here, yet with a humble soul 
Jll That looks for perfect happiness in heaven; 
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole 
Which to the faithful shall at last be given. 



As once the patriarch, in a vision blessed. 
Saw the swift angels hasteuins- to and fro. 
And the lone spot whereon he laj' to rest 
Became to him the gate of heaven below; 
So may to thee, when life itself is done, 
Thy home on earth and heaven above be 
one, 

Jones Very. 



REST IS NOT HERE. 



pHAT "s this vain world to me? 

Rest is not here ; 
False are the smiles I see, 

The mirth I hear. 
AVhere is youth's joyful glee? 
Where all once dear to me? 
Gone, as the shadows flee — 

Rest is not here. 

Why did the morning shine 

Blithely and fair? 
Why did those tints so fine 
Vanish in air? 



Does not the vision say, 
Faint, lingering heart, away, 
Why in this desert stay — 
Dark land of care? 

Where souls angelic soar, 

Thither repair ; 
Let this vain world no more 

Lull and ensnare. 
That heaven I love so well 
Still in my heart shall dwell ; 
All things around me tell 

Rest is found there. 

Lady Caroline Nairne. 



PEACE. 



UP^EACE, troubled heart! the way 's not long be- 
1^; fore thee, 

fLay down thy burden ; say to sorrow, cease ; 
Be yon soft azure hand serenely o'er thee. 
The blue, bright border to G-od's sphere of 
peace. 

Peace, troubled heart! the hasty word may fret thee, 
The cruel word may coldly probe and pierce ; 

The Christ who suffered, loves thee, never leaves thee. 
He pours His balm upon the fever fierce. 

Peace, troubled heart! though maiTed thy best be- 
havior. 

To thy deep longing, thine aspiring cry. 
Listens thy Heavenly Kinsman, thy dear Saviour 

Healeth thy life-hurt, wipeth thy tears diy. 

Peace, lonely heart! Bepatient. Thou 'It see, waiting. 
How perfect sympathy and love may meet; 

Be patient, praying; all earth's discord grating, 
AVill melt at last to love divine, complete. 

Peace, troubled heart! O coward, weakly shrinking 
Back from the clialice ! Saints and martj'rs' meed. 

The chrism of suffering. Earthward, poor souls 
sinking. 
Yearn for the heavenly Joy, througli liunuui need. 



Peace, troubled heart ! see 3^on strong ships all sailing 
Through sun and storm, on to the solemn sea; 

Through summer calms, through wintry tempest 
quailing. 
Thus sailest thou, out to luflnitj^ 

Peace, troubled heart ! beyond these bitter breezes, 
Mid Isles of Paradise, in airs of balm, 

"Where ci-uel \\ind or word ne'er wounds or freezes. 
Thou "It gain at last the everlasting calm. 

Peace, troubled heart! go out beneath the ether, 
Rest in the marvelous sunshine of the sky; 

Watch the bees sail and sing in sunny leisure; 
List the waves laughing as thej^ loiter by. 

Peace, ti-oubled heart! if minor notes of sadness 
Tremble through Nature's voices, every sigh 

Quickens the anthem of her mightier gladness. 
Foretells fruition perfect by and by. 

Peace, troubled heart! life's ever-mocking seeming, 
Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss. 

Are fitful phantoms of its transient dreaming. 
While Faith stands steadfast gazing on the Cross. 

Mary Clemmer Ames. 



802 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 




MY 

SY told me I was heir; I turned in haste, 
And ran to seek my treasure, 
^f^ And wondered, as I ran, how it was placed, 
i^ If I should tiud a measure 
t Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 

And houses would be laid within my hands. 

I journej'ed many roads; I knocked at gates; 

I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said. •• A heritage awaits 

Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news? some message sent to me whereby 
I learn which way mj' new possessions lie? " 

Some asked me in; naught lay bej^ond their door; 

Some smiled, and would not tarry. 
But said that men were just behind who bore 

;More gold than I could carry : 
And so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent. 
While empty-handed up and down I went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could not see. 

As through the mist he hasted : 
■• Poor child! what evil ones have hindered thee 

Till this whole day is wasted? 
Hath no one told thee that thou art joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits the goods 
share? " 

The one named Christ I sought for many daj's. 

In many places vainly; 
I heard men name his Jiame in many ways; 

I saw his temples plainlj-; 



LEGACY. 



But thej' who named him most gave me no sign 
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his face. 

I knew him by no token 
Save subtle air of joy which filled the place; 

Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my share. 
Kue( .;iig before my brother and •• joint heir." 

My share! No deed of house or spreading lands, 

As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold : my elder brother's hands 

Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed ; 
My brother had not where to lay his head. 

My share! The right like him to know all pain 

Which hearts are made for kno%\ lug; 
The right to liud in loss the surest gain ; 

To reap my joy from sowing 
In bitter tears; the right with him to keep 
A watch by daj' and night with all who weep. 

My share! To-day men call it grief and death: 

I see the joy and life to-morrow; 
I thank my Father with my every breath. 

For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each "joint heir " 
With Christ: "Make haste to ask him for thy 
share."' 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



to 



THE SILENT LAND. 



fpf LOUDY argosies are drifting down into the pur- 
ple dark — 

Down into the fading west: 
J-l And the long low amber reaches lying on the 

horizon's mark. 
Shape themselves into the gateways opening to the 
Land of Rest — 
Gatewaj's leading through the sunset, out into the 
under world 
Bi'ight with ])ilgrim barges lying round the Islands 
of the Blest, 
With their white sails tranquil furled. 

Pale sea-buds that weep forever, water-lilies damp 
and cool 
That the heavenly shores adorn. 
And the mystic lotus shining through the white waves 
beautiful. 
Far a peaoe-emitting fragrance shed through all 
that tranquil bourne; 



Light the valleys undisquieted with step of mortal 
tread — 

Bind the white brows of the Living whom all com- 
fortless we mourn. 
Whom we blindly call the Dead. 

O j"e lost ones! ye departed! do ye heed the tears we 
shed? 
Speak, and bid our sorrows cease! 
beloved! O Immortals! O j'e dead who are not 
dead! 
Are ye near us in our anguish, in our longing for 
release? 
Speak to us across the darkness, — wave to us a glim- 
mering hand! 
Tell us but that ye remember, and our souls shall 
wait in peace — 
Dwellers in the Silent Land ! 

Kate Seymour McLean. 



THE BETTEE LAND. 



803 



THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 



«?^\VEET is the scene when Virtue dies! 
k^ When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
How raildlj' beam the closing eyes, 
How gently heaves the expiring breast! 

So fades a summer cloud away. 
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day. 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
Fanned by some augeFs purple wing; — 



Where is, O Gravel thy victorj^ now? 
And where, insidious Death, thy sting? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and feai's. 
Where light and shade alternate dwell! 

How bright the unchanging morn appears; — 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell! 

Its duty doue, — as sinks the day. 
Light from its load the spirit flies; 

While heaveu and earth combine to say, 
"Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!'' 

Anna Letitia Baruauld. 



-s— a-'i'2/^^=:^^yZaor- 



I SHALL BE SATISFIED. 






K(^0T here ! not here ! not where the sparkling wa- 
'f ters 

Fade into mocking sands as we draw near; 
Where in the wilderness each footstep falters — 
I shall be satisfied — but oh ! not here. 

Not here! where every dream of bliss deceives us. 
Where the worn spirit never gains its goal; 

Where, haunted ever by the thoughts that grieve us. 
Across us floods of bitter memory roll. 

There is a land ^^ here every pulse is thi'illing 
With rapture earth's sojourners may not know. 

Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling. 
And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. 

Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us. 
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, 



And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us 
Thau these few words — ■• I shall be satisfled." 

Satisfied 1 satisfled! the spirit's yearning 
For sweet companionship with kindred minds — 

The silent love that here meets no returning — 
The inspii-ation which no language finds — 

Shall they be satisfied? the soul's vague longing — 
The aching void which nothing earthly fills? 

Oh, what desires upon my soul are thronging, 
As I look upward to the heavenly hills! 

Thither my weak and weary steps are tending — 
Saviour and Lord! with thy frail child abide! 

Guide me towards home, where, all my wandering 
ending, 
I then shall see Thee, and "be satisfled." 



gEPlHERE 'S a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are 
^1^ ill 

M^ told. 

Jk Wliere thej^ know uot the sorrows of time, — 

* Where the pure waters wander through valleys 

of gold. 

And life is a treasure sublime ; — 

'Tis the land of our God. 'tis the home of the soul, 

AVhere the ages of splendor eternally roll ; 

Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal. 

On the evergreen Mountains of Life. 

Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land. 

But our visions have told of its bliss. 
And our souls by the gale of its gardens are 
fanned, 

'WTien we faint in the desert of this ; 



THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE. 



And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, 
AVheu our spirits were torn with temptations and 

woes. 
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows 
From the evergreen Mountains of Life. 

Oh, the stars never tread the blue heavens at night. 

But we think where the ransomed have trod ! 
And the day never smiles from his palace of light, 

But we feel the bright smile of our God! 
We are traveling homeward through changes and 

gloom. 
To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom. 
And our guide is the glory that shines through the 
tomb. 
From the evergreen Mountains of Life. 

J. G. Clark. 



804 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



IMMORTALITY. 



ftH! listen, man! 

A voice within us speaks that startling word : 
Hjjl "Man, thou Shalt never die!" Celestial voices 

Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps, 
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortalitj': 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
Oh ! listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in 
From aU the air. 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 



"Tis floating 'mid Day's setting glories ; Xight, 

Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 

Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 

Night, and the dawn, bright day. and thoughtfid eve. 

All time, all bounds, the limitless expause, 

As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 

By an unseen living Hand, and conscious chords 

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 

The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 

Grow didl and distant, wake their passing souls 

To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

EiCHARD Henry Daxa. 



THE BETTER AY AY. 



oWo . 



j^ND didst thou love the race that loved not thee ? 

And didst thou take to heaven a human brow? 

Dost plead with man's voice by the marvelous 

Art thou his kinsman now? 

God, O kinsman loved, but not enough! 

man, with eyes majestic after death. 
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough. 

Whose lips drawn human breath I 

By that one likeness which is ours and thine. 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin. 

By that high heaven where, sinless, thou dost shine, 
To draw us sinners in, — 

By thy last silence in the judgment-hall. 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree. 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 

1 pray Thee \isit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 
Die ere the guest adored she entertained— , 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day. 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 

Come, wear^'-eyed from seeking in the night 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold. 



AVho. wounded, dying, ciy to Thee for light. 
And cannot find their fold. 

And deign. O watcher with the sleepless brow, 
■ Pathetic in its yeai-uiug — deign reply ; 

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I? 

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust, 
Are there no thorns that compass it about? 

Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out? 

O, if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be. 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay ; 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me? 
There is a better way. 

■\\Tiat though unmarked the happy workman toil, 
And break, unthanked of man. the stubborn clod? 

It is enough, for sacred is the soil. 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 
Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song. 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing His glory wrong. 

Jean Ingelow. 



THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AXD THE LIFE. 



THOU great Friend to all the sons of men. 
^^y, 'VVlio once appeared in humblest guise below. 
'W'' Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain. 
J-l And call thy brethren forth from want and 
woe, — 

We look to thee! thy truth is still the Light 
Which guides the nations, groping on their way, 



Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes: thou art still the Life, thou art tlie Way 

The holiest know; Light. Life, the Way of heaven! 
And they who dearest hojje and deepest pray. 

Toil by the Light. Life, Way. which thou hast 
given. 

Theodore Parker. 



THE BETTEK LAJSTD. 



805 



REST. 



M LAY me down to sleep, 
"With little cai'e 
^VTiether mj^ wakiug find 
Me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head 
That only asks to rest, 

Unquestioning, upon 
A loving breast. • 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now; 
To march the wearj' march 

I know not how. 



••O-s^-^'O" 



I am not eager, bold. 

Nor strong, — all that is past; 
I am ready not to do. 

At last, at last. 

My half-day's work is done, 

And this is all my part, — 
I give a patient God 

My patient heart ; 

And grasp his banner still, 
Though all the blue be dim ; 

These stripes as well as stars 
Lead after him. 

May Woolsey Howland. 




ONLY WAITING. 

A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now. He replied, " Only waiting.' 



,Y waiting till the shadows 

Ai'e a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the heart once full of day ; 
Till the dawn of heaven is breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home ; 
For the summer-time is faded, 

And the autumn winds have come. 
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 

The last ripe hours of my heart. 
For the bloom of life is withered, 

And I hasten to depart. 



Only waiting till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate. 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps. 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me, I am waiting. 

Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown; 
Then from out the gathered darkness, 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
By whose light my soul shall gladly 

Tread its pathway to the skies. 

Frances Laughton Mace. 



LIFE. 



llglFE ! I know not what thou art, 
PPH But know that thou and I must part; 

fAnd when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 
But this I know : when thou art fled, 
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head. 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
O, whither, whither dost thou fly? 
Where bend unseen thy trackless com'se? 
And, in this strange divorce, 
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, 1 ? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame. 
From whence thy essence came, 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's base encumbering weed? 



Or dost thou, hid from sight, 

Wait, like some spell-bound knight. 

Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power? 

Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be? 

O, say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee? 

Life ! we've been long together 

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 

'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — 

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; 

Then steal away, give little warning. 
Choose thine own time; 
Sa,y not Good Night. — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

Anna Letitia Bakbauld. 



806 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 




EEUXIO^' I^' HEATED. 

^EA^"EN is not a solitude; it is a peopled cit}", a city in which there 
are no strangers, no homeless, no poor: where one does not pass 
another in the street without greeting, where no one is envious of 
another's minstrelsy or of another's more brilliant crown. When God 
said, in the ancient Eden, '• It is not good for man to be alone," 
there was a deeper signification in the words than could be exhausted 
or explained by the family tie. It was the declaration of an essential 
want which the Creator in His highest wisdom has impressed upon 
the noblest of His works. That is not life — you do not call that life — 
where the hermit in some moorland glade drags out a solitary existence, 
or where the captive in some cell of bondage frets and pines unseen. 
Life, all kinds of life, tends to companionship, and rejoices in it, from the larvae 
and buzzino- insect cloud up to the kinglj' lion and the kinglier man. It is a social state 
into which we are to be introduced, as well as a state of consciousness. Not only, 
therefore, does the Saviour pray for His disciples, "Father, I will that those whom 
thou hast iriven me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory," but 
those who are in that heavenly recompense are said to have come " to the general 
assembly and church of the first-born written in heaven."" Aye, and better than that, 
and dearer to some of us, " to the spirits of just men made perfect." 

The question of the recognition of departed friends in heaven, and special and 
intimate reunion with them. Scripture and reason enable us to infer with almost abso- 
lute certainty. It is implied in the fact that the resurrection is a resurrection of 
individuals, that it is this mortal that shall put on immortality. It is implied in the 
fact that heaven is a vast and happy society: and it is implied in the fact that there is no 
unclothing of nature that we possess, onl}- the clothing upon it of the garments of a 
brighter and more glorious immortality. 

Take comfort, then, those of you in whose history the dearest charities of life have 
been severed by the rude hand of death ; those whom you have thought about as lost are 
not lost, except to present sight. Perhaps even no\v they are angel watchers, screened 
b}' a kindly Providence from everything about that would give you pain : but if you and 
they are alike, in Jesus, and remain faithful to the end, doubt not that you shall know 
them again. It were strange, don't you think, if amid* the multitude of eaiiib's 
ransomed ones that we ai*e to see in heaven, we should see all but those we most 
fondly and fervently long to see? Strange, if in some of our walks along the golden 
streets, we never happen to light upon them? Strange, if we did not hear some heaven 
song, learned on earth, trilled b}- some clear ringing voice that we have often 
heard before. 

William Morley Puxshon. 



^pp^S in this life we woke into consciousness in the arms of loving friends, so we may 
^i^M, venture to hope our next waking will be bosomed by the eternal love which provided 
this shelter for us here. 



THE BETTER LAND. 



807 



NO MORE SEA. 



<snilRHERE shall be iio more sea; no wild winds 
biiugiug 
Their stormy tidings to the rocky strand, 
With its scant grasses, and pale sea-tlowers 
springing 
From out the barren sand. 

No angry wave, from cliff and cavern hoary. 
To hearts that tremble at its mournful lore; 

Bearing on shattered sail and spar the story 
Of one who conies no more; 

The loved and lost, whose steps no more may wander 
Where \\ ild gorse sheds its blooms of living gold, 

Nor slake his thirst where mountain rills meander 
Along the heathy wold. 

Never again through llowery dingles wending 
In the hushed stillness of the sacred morn. 



By shady woodpaths where tall poppies, bending. 
Redden the ripening corn. 

Neath whispering leaves his rosy children gather. 
In the gray hamlefs simple place of graves, 

Round the low tomb where sleeps his white-haired 
father. 
Far from the noise of waves. 

There shall be no more sea! No surges sweeping 
O'er love and youth, and childhood's sunny hair; 

Naught of decay and change, nor voice of weeping, 
Ruffle the fragrant air 

Of that fair laud within whose pearly portal 
The golden light falls soft on fount and tree; 

Vexed by no tempest, stretch those shores immortal, 
AVhere there is no more sea. 



-e}-^e--t9" 



"THEY THAT SEEK ME EARLY SPIALL FIND ME." - 



il|03iIE, while the blossoms of thy years are bright- 

^ Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze ; 
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, 

And joy's pure sunbeam trembles in thy ways; 
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds un- 
folding. 
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast; 
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding. 
Come and secure interminable rest. 

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, 

And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; 
Pleasure will fold her wing — and friend and lover 

W^ill to the embraces of the worm have gone! 
Those who now love thee will have passed forever — 

Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; 
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever. 

As thy sick heart broods over years to be ! 



Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing. 

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; 
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing. 

Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. 
Life is but shadows — save a promise given 

That lights the future with a fadeless ray ; 
Come, touch the sceptre — win a hope in Heaven — 

And turn thy spirit from this world away. 

Then will the shadows of this brief existence 

Seem aiiy nothings to thine ardent soul — 
And. shadowed brightly in the forward distance. 

Will, of thy patient race, appear the goal; 
Home of the weary, where in glad reposing, 

The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss. 
While o'er his dust the curtained grave is closing: — 

Who would not early choose a lot like this? 

Willis Gaylord Clark. 



THE RISEN CHRIST. 



InD did he rise? 

Hear, O ye nations! hear it, ye dead! 
He rose ! he rose ! He burst the bars of death. 
Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates? 
And give the King of glory to come in. 
Who is the King of glory? He who left 
His throne of glory, for the pang of death : 
Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates! 



And give the King of glory to come in. 
Who is the King of glory? He who slew 
The ravenous foe that gorged all human race! 
The King of glory, he, whose glory filled 
Heaven with amazement at his love to man; 
And with divine complacency beheld 
Powers most illumined, wiklered in the theme. 
Edward Young. 



808 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 



I'M wearin' awa', John, 
I Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John : 
I'm wearin' awa' 

To the land o' the leal. 
There 's nae sorrow there. John ; 
There 's neither cauld nor care, John ; 
The day is aye fair 
I' the land o' the leal. 

Our bonnie bairn 's there, John; 
She was baith gude and fair, John; 
And oh, we grudged her sair 

To the land o' the leal. 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
And joy 's a-comin' fast, John, 
The joy that "s aye to last 

I' the land o' the leal. 



-, — ,s^„9a/SZio- 



Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John, 
Sae free the battle fought, Johu 
That sinfu' man e'er brought 

To the land o' the leal. 
O dry your glistening e"e, Johu! 
My soul laugs to be free, Johu 
And angels beckon me 

To the land o' the leal. 

O baud ye leal and true, John; 
Your day it 's wearin through, John, 
And I '11 welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my ain John I 
This warld's cares are vain, Johu ; 
We 'II meet, and we '11 be fain, 

1' the land o' the leal. 

Lady Caroline Naikne. 



THE LAND OF WHICH I DREAM. 



^^URELY yon heaven, where angels see God's face, 
^^ Is not so distant as we deem 
T From this low earth. 'Tis but a little space, 
1 The narrow crossing of a slender stream ; 
'Tis but a veil which winds might blow aside. 
Yes ; these are all that us of earth divide 
From the bright dwelling of the glorified, — 
The land of which I dream. 

These peaks are nearer heaven than earth below. 

These hills are higher than they seem ; 
'Tis not the clouds they touch, nor the soft brow 

Of the o'erbending azure, as we deem. 
'Tis the blue floor of heaven that they upbear. 
And. like some old and wildly rugged stair. 
They lift us to the land where all is fair, — 

The land of which I dream. 

These ocean waves, in their unmeasured sweep. 

Are brighter, bluer than they seem ; 
True image here of the celestial deep, 

Fed from the fulness of the unfailing stream — 



Heaven's glassy sea of everlasting rest. 
With not a breath to stir its silent breast, — 
The sea that laves the land where all are blest, — 
' The land of which I dream. 

And these keen stars, the bridal gems of night. 

Are purer, lovelier than they seem; 
Filled from the inner fountain of deep light. 

They pour down heaven's own beam ; 
Clear speaking from their throne of glorious blue. 
In accents ever ancient, ever new. 
Of the glad home above, beyond our view, — 

The laud of which I dream. 

This life of ours, these lingering years of earth, 

Are briefer, swifter than they seem ; 
A little while, and the great second birth 

Of time shall come. — the prophet's ancient theme. 
Then He, the King, the Judge, at length shall come, 
And for this desert, where we sadly roam. 
Shall give the kingdom for our endless home. 

The land of which I dream. 

HOKATIUS BONAR. 



THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES. 



|HE bird, let loose in eastern skies. 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam ; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthlj- bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 



So grant me, God ! from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through virtue's purer air. 

To hold my course to thee ! 
No sin to cloud,— no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs; — 
Th_v sunshine on her joj'ful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE BETTER LAND. 



809 



TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS. 



The 
And 



ELL me, ye winged winds, 

'I'hiit round my pathway roar, 
Do ye uot know some spot 

Where mortals weep no more? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west. 
Where, free from toil and pain. 
The weary soul may rest? 
loud wind dwindled to a wliisper low, 
sighed lor pity as it answered, — " No. 



Tell me, thou mighty deep, 

Whose billows round me play, 
Know'st thou some favored spot, 

Some island far away, 
Where weary man may And 

The bliss for whicla he sighs, — 
Where sorrow never lives, 

And friendship never dies? 
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer,- 



■No.' 



And thou, serenest moon. 

That, with such lovely face, 
Dost look upon the earth. 

Asleep in night's embrace; 
Tell me, in all thy round 

Hast thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man 

May tind a happier lot? 
Behind a eloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,— " No." 

Tell me, my secret soul, 

O, tell me, Hope and Faith, 
Is there no resting-place 

P^rom sorrow, sin, and death? 
Is there no happy spot 

Where mortals may be blest, 
Where grief may find a balm. 
And weariness a rest? 
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given. 
Waved their bright wings, and whispered, — " Yes, in 
heaven!" 

Charles Mackay. 



I 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 



I 



|ITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame! 
Trembling, hoping, lingaring, flying; 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dj'ing! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. 
Sister si)irit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite. 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 



Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? 
Tell me, iny soul ! can this be death ! 

The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! 
O grave! where is thy victory? 

O death! where is thy sting? 

Alexander Pope. 



'SX?-^ 



Ij^f ARTH, with its dark and dreadful ills, 
W^ Recedes and fades away; 
'ff^ Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 
ji Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song, — 
My blindness is my sight; 

The shadows that I feared so long 
Are full of life and light. 

The while my pulses fainter beat, 
My faith doth so abound. 



50 



DYING HYMN. 



I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green, immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives, 

Low as the grave to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives, — 

That I shall live I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 
Where dwells my Lord and King! 

O grave, where is thy victory? 
O death, where is thy sting? 

Alice Cary. 



810 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUKY. 



HEAVEX. 



[^^ETOXD these chilling winds and gloomy skies 
t^ Beyond death s cloudy portal. 
;■;' There is a laud where beauty never dies — 
j\. TMiere love becomes immortal. 

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade. 

Whose fields are ever vernal; 
"NMiere nothiug beautiful cau ever fade. 

But blooms for aye eternal. 

We may not know how sweet its balmy air. 

How bright and fail- its llowers : 
We may not hear the songs that echo there 

Through those enchanted bowei-s. 

The city's shining towers we may not see 
With our dim earthlv vision. 



For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 
That opes the gates elysian. 

But sometimes, when adowu the western sky 

A fiery sunset lingers. 
Its goldeu gates swing iuward noiselessly. 

Unlocked by unseen fingers. 

And while they stand a moment half ajar. 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Sti-eam brightly through the azure vault afar. 

And half reveal the story. 

O land unknown I O land of love divine I 

Father, all-wise, eternal. 
Oh. guide these wandering, way-wornfeet of mine 

Into those pastures vernal! 

Xaxcy Pkiest Wakefield. 



heave:^ orPt home. 

^pT cannot be that earth is man's only abiding-place. It cannot be that our life is 
^Ai, a bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity, to float another moment upon its 
i-i surface, and then sink into nothingness and darkness forever. Else why is it that 

the high and glorious asjoirations which leap like angels from the temples of 
our hearts, are forever wandering abroad, unsatisfied? TVhy is it that the rainbow and 
the cloud come over us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave 
us to muse on their faded loveliness? Why is it that the stars which hold their festival 
around the midnight throne are set above the grasp of our limited faculties, and are 
forever mocking us with their unapproachable glory ? Finally, why is it that bright forms 
of human beauty are presented to the viev,-, and then taken from us, leaving the thousand 
streams of the affections to flow back in an Alpine torrrent upon otir hearts? 

We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where 
the rainbow never fades : where the stars will be spread out before us like the islands 
that slumber on the ocean ; and where the beautiful beings that here pass before us 
like visions will stay in our presence forever I 

George D. Prextice. 



UP-HILL. 



U^OES the road wind up-hill all the way? 
§K? les, to the rery etid. 

• ' ' Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

"4/ From tiiofvi to night, my fi-ieiid. 

But is there for the night a resting-place? 

^•J roof for when the slow darAr hours be- 
gin. 
Maj' not the darkness hide it from my face? 

You cannot ?m/'ss that hi?i. 



Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who hare gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

'They will not keep you standing at that 
door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labor you shall fnd the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

lea, beds for all who co/ne. 

Christika G. Eossetti. 



THE BETTEE LAND. 



811 



IN HARBOR. 



THIXK it is over, over- 

I think it is over at last; 
Voices of foeman and lover, 

The sweet and the bitter have passed ; 
Life, like a tempest of ocean, 

Hath blown its ultimate blast. 
There 's but a faint sobbing seaward. 
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward. 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, 

Those lights in the Harbor at last — 

The heavenly Harbor at last. 

I feel it is over, over — 

The winds and the water surcease ; 
How few were the days of the Eover 

That smiled in the beauty of peace ! 
And distant and dim was the omen 

That hinted redress or release, 
From the ravage of life and its riot. 



What marvel I yearn for the quiet 

Which bides in this Harbor at last? 
For the lights with their welcoming quiver. 
That throb through the sacrificed river 
Which girdles the Harbor at last- 
That heavenly Harbor at last. 

I know it is over, over — 

I know it is over at last ; 
Down sail, the sheathed anchor uncover. 

For the stress of the voyage has passed ; 
Life, like the temi^est of ocean, 

Hath outblown its ultimate blast. 
There 's but a faint sobbing seaward. 
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward. 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver. 
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river. 

Those lights in the Harbor at last — 

The heavenly Harbor at last ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



-S-tXs^ 



TWO WORLDS. 



vAVO worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, 
Whose magic joys we shall not see again; 
Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering 
shore. 
Ah, truly breathed we there 
Intoxicating air — 
Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of 
Nevermore. 

The lover there drank her delicious breath 
AVhose love has yielded since to change or death; 
The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. 
Alas! too soon have fled 
The irreclaimable dead : 
We see them — visions strange — amid the 
Nevermore. 

The merrysome maiden that used there to sing — 
The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling 
To temples long clay-cold : to the very core 
They strike our weary hearts, 
As some vexed memory starts 
From that long-faded laud — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

It is perpetual summer there. But here 
Sadly may we remember rivers clear, 
And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. 
For brighter bells and bluer. 
For tenderer hearts and truer, 
People that happy land — the realm of 
Nevermoi'c. 



Upon the frontier of this shadowy land 
We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand : 
What realm lies forward, with its happier store 
Of forests green and deep. 
Of valleys hushed in sleep, 
And lakes more peaceful? 'Tis the land of 
Evermore. 

Very far off its marble cities seem — 
Very far off — bej'ond our sensual dream — 
Its woods, unrufiied by the wild wind's roar; 
Yet does the turbulent surge 
Howl on its very verge. 
One moment — and we breathe within the 
Evermore. 

They whom we loved and lost so long ago 
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe — 
Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carol- 
ings soar. 
Eternal peace have they; 
God M'ipes their tears away ; 
They drink that river of life which flows from 
Evermore. 

Thither we hasten through these regions dim. 
But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim 
Shine in the sunset! On that Joyous shore 
Our lightened hearts shall know 
The life of long ago : 
The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for 
Evermore. 

Mortimer Collins. 



812 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUEY. 



AVHEN. 



ipF I were told that I must die to-morrow, 
1^ That the next suu 

T Which sinks would bear me past all fear and 
1 sorrow 

For auy ooe, 
All the fight fought, all the short jouruej- through, 

What should I do? 

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, 

But just go on. 
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 

Aught that is gone ; 
But rise and move and love and smile and pray 

For one more day. 

And. lying down at night for a last sleeping, 

iSay in that ear 
Which hearkens ever: '' Lord, within thy keeping 

How should I fear? 
And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, 

Do thou thy will." 

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender. 

My soul would lie 
All the night long; and when the morning splendor 

Flushed o'er the skj% 
I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 

"It is His day." 

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 

Held out a scroll 
On which my life was writ, and I \\ith wonder 

Beheld unroll 



To a long century's end its mystic clew. 
What should 1 do? 

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, 

Other than this : 
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster. 

Nor fear to miss 
The road, although so very long it be. 

While led by Thee? 

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, 

Although unseen. 
Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide 
thee 

Or heavens serene. 
Assured thj' faithfulness cannot betray, 

Thy love decaj'. 

I may not know; mj^ God, no hand revealeth 

Thy counsels wise ; 
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth. 

No voice replies 
To all my questioning thought, the time to tell; 

And it is well. 

Let me keep on, abiding and imfearing 

Thy will always. 
Through a long century's i-ipeniug fruition 

Or a short day's ; 
Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait 

If thou come late. 

Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 



ABIDE WITH ME. 




^IpsBIDE with me! fast falls the eventide; 

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. 
Help of the heli^less, oh, abide with me I 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away; 
Change and decay in all around I see; 
O Thou who changest not, abide with me ! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples. Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free. 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 

Come, not in terrors, as the King of Kings, 
But kind and good, with healing in thy wings; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea; 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me! 



Thou on my head in early youth didst smile; 
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, 
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee; 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

I need thj^ presence every passing hour; 
AVhat but thy grace can foil the tempter's power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me! 

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless; 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness: 
AVhere is Death's sting? where. Grave, thy victory? 
I triumph still, if thou abide with me ! 

Hold Thou thy cross before my closing eyes ! 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies! 
Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows 

flee; 
In Life and Death, O Lord, abide with me ! 

Henky Francis Lyte. 



THE BETTEE LAND. 



«13 



I TOO." 



jgET us spread the sail for purple islands, 
Far in undiscovered tropic seas; 
Let ustraclv the glimmering arctic highlands, 
Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees 
E'er has lived." So speaks the elders, telling 
By the hearth, their list of fancies through. 
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling 
Till he cries at last, " I too ! 1 too I "' 

And I, too, O mjf Father! Thou hast made me — 

I have life, and life must have its way; 
Why should love and gladness he gainsaid me? 

Why should shadows cloud my little day? 
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even — 

Souls of kings are worth no moi'e than mine ; 
Why are gifts e"er to my brother given. 

While my heart and I together pine? 

Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking. 

Fullest joys : the one-day's butterfly 
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking. 

Has the whole of life ere it doth die. 



-S-— «-^i^/2^=^£/a/lOr- 



Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying; 

With thy full contentment thou dost coo; 
Yet must man cry for a dove's life, saying, 

" Make me as a dove — I too ! I too ! " 

Naj% for something moves within — a spirit 

Rises in his breast, he feels it stir; 
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit 

Should be his to feel; yet why defer 
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow 

All his longings for a present bliss? 
Stones of faith are hard; oh, could he borrow. 

From that world's great stores one taste for this! 

Hungry stands he by his empty table, 

Thirstj' waits beside his empty well 
Nor with all his striving, is he able 

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell 
In his neighbor's bosom ; see, he sifteth 

Once again his poor life through and through — 
Finds but ashes : is it strange he lifteth 

Up his cry, " O Lord! I too! I too! " 

Constance Fenimoke Woolson. 




IsO SOEEOW THEEE. 

pHIS earthly life has been fitly characterized as a pilgrimage through a vale of 
tears. In the language of poetry, man himself has been called a pendulum 
,.,^^ betwixt a smile and a tear. Everything in this world is characterized by 
^ imperfection. The best people have many faults. The clearest mind only 
sees through a glass darkly. The purest heart is not without spot. All the inter- 
course of society, all the transactions of business, all our estimates of human 
conduct and motive must be based upon the sad assumption that we cannot wholly 
trust either ourselves or our fellow-men. Every heart has its grief, every house 
has its skeleton, every character is marred with weakness and imperfection. And 
all these aimless conflicts of our minds, and unanswered longings of our hearts, 
should lead us to rejoice the more in the divine assurance that a time is coming 
when night shall melt into noon, and the mystery shall be clothed with glory. 

Daniel March. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW 



^jHhIS world is all i 
^^ For man's illi 



a fleeting show, 
lusion given; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — 
There 's nothing true but heaven ! 



And false the light on glory's plume. 

As fading hues of even ; 
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom 



Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — 
There 's nothing bright but heaven ! 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we 're driven, 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way. — 
There 's nothing calm but heaven ! 

Thomas Moore. 



814 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUKY. 



THE OTHER WORLD. 



^T lies around us like a cloud — 
^M A world Ave do not see ; 
T Yet the sweet closing of an eye 

/ May bring us there to be. 

y 

1 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 
Amid our woi'ldly cai'es 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 
And mingle with our prayers. 

vveet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred. 
And palpitates the veil bet\\een 
"With breathings almost heard. 

The silence — a\\^ul, sweet, and calm — 
They have no power to break; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet thej' glide. 
So near to press they seem, — 

They seem to lull us to our rest, 
And melt into our dream. 



And in the hush of rest they bi-ing 

'Tis easy now to see 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be ! 

To close the ej'e and close the ear. 

Rapt in a trance of bliss. 
And gentlj' dream in loving arms 

To swoon to that — from tliis. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 

Scarce asking where we are. 
To feel all evil sink away. 

All sorrow and all care. 

Sweet souls around us I watch ns still. 

Press nearer to our side. 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 

With gentle helpings glide. 

Let death between ns be as naught. 

A dried and vanished stream ; 
Your joy be the reality, 

Our suffering life the dream. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



^^EYOXD the farthest glimmering star 
^^ That twinkles in the arch above, 
''W^ There is a world of truth and love 
J-l AVhich earth's vile passions never mar. 

Oh! could I snatch the eagle's plumes 
And soar to that bright world above. 



A BETTER WORLD. 



Which God's own holy light illumes 
With glories of eternal day. 

How glad)}' every lingering tic 
That binds me down to earth I "d sever, 

And leave for that blest home on high 
This hollow-hearted world forever! 

George D. Prentice. 



MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 



'^^^^EInd is there care in heaven? 



And is there love 



In heavenlj'' spirits to these creatures base. 
/^f\ That may compassion of their evils move? 
j I There is : — else much more wretched were the 

case 
Of men than beasts : but O, the exceeding grace 
Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so. 
And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels he sends to and fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! 



How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
To come to succour us that succour A\ant! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant. 
Against fowle feends to ayd us militant! 
Thej- for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward. 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 
And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
Oh, why shoidd heavenlj' God to men have such 
regard ! 

Edmund Spenser. 



-^^-^^- 



glorious morninff, with the sun ever climbing higher and 



li^TERNITY will be one o-iorious morninff, 

^^^ higher; one blessed spring-time, and yet richer summer — every plant in full tiower, 

but every flower the bud of a lovelier. 



THE BETTER LAND. 



815 



"FATHER, TAKE MY HAND." 

IIMhE way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud 
^R^ Is gathering thickly o"er my head, and loud 
'iff''* The thunders roar above me. See, I stand 
J4 Like one bewildered! Father, take my hand, 
And through the gloom 
Lead safely home 
Thy child ! 



The day goes fast, my Father! and the night 
Is drawing darkly down. My faithless sight 
Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band, 
Encompass me. O Father, take my hand, 

And from the night 

Lead up to light / 

Thy child ! 

The way is long, my Father ! and my soul 
Longs for the i-est and quiet of the goal : 
While yet I journey through this weary land, 
Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand; 

Quickly and straight 

Lead to heaven's gate 
Thy child! 



The path is rough, my Father! Many a thorn 
Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all torn 
And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy connnand 
Bids me press forwai'd. Father, take my hand; 

Then, safe and blest, 

Lead up to rest 
Thy child! 



3^(r-^ 



The throng is great, my Father! Many a doubt 
And fear and danger compass me about; 
And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand 
Or go alone. O Father! take my hand, 

And through the throng 

Lead safe along 
Thy child! 

The cross is heavy, Father ! I have borne 
It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn 
And fainting spirit rise to that blest land 
Where crowns are given. Father, take my hand; 
And reaching down 
Lead to the crown 
Thy child! 

Henry N. Cobb. 



RIPE GRAIN. 



KM STILL, white face of perfect peace, 

Untouched by passion, freed from pain,- 
^*W^ He who ordained that work should cease 
J4 Took to Himself the ripened grain. 

O noble face ! your beauty bears 
The glory that is wrung from pain, — 



The high, celestial beautj' wears 
Of finished work, of ripened grain. 

Of human care you left no trace, 
No lightest trace of grief or pain, 

On earth an empty form and face — 
In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 

Dora Read Goodale. 



NEARER HOME. 



^^NE sweetly solemn thought 
l^P Comes to mc o'er and o'er: 
^f^ I'm nearer home to-day 
il Than I ever have been before. 

Nearer my Father's house. 

A^'^lere the many mansions be; 
Nearer the great white throne, 

Nearer the crystal sea; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay oiu- burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross. 

Nearer gaining the crown! 

But lying darkly between, 
Winding down through the night. 



Is the silent, unknown stream. 
That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 

Come to the dread abysm ; 
Closer Death to mj' lips 

Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh. if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink — 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think, — 

Father, perfect my trust. 

Let my spirit feel in death. 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the Rock of a Living Faith ! 

Phcebe Cary. 



816 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD. 



e||^EAD, kindly Light, amid tlie encircling gloom, 
di^^ Lead thou me ou! 

M\ The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 
*i*^ Lead thou me on ! 

Keep thou my feet: I do not ask to see 

The distant scene. — one step "s enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 

Shouldst lead me on : 
I loved to choose and see my path, but now 

Lead thou me ou I 



I loved tlae garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past 
years. 

So long thy i^ower hath blessed me. sure it still 

Will lead me on; 
O'er moor and fen. o"er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone : 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
"Which 1 have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
JOHX Henry Xewman. 



.3---ic-^^ 



HEREAFTER. 

I^SOVE, when all the years are silent, vanished On the violefs purple bosom. I the sheen, but you the 



S*- 



quite and laid to rest. 



blossom. 



^f'f- When you and 1 are sleeping, folded breathless Sti-eam on sunset winds, and be the haze with' which 
J4 breast to breast. some hill is wet? 



tosses o'er us. Or, beloved — if ascending — when we have endowed 

And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps the world 

pressed — With the best bloom of our being, whither will our 

waj' be whirled. 
Still that love of ours will linger, that great love en- Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what 

rich the earth. awful, holy places. 

Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing AVith a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit 

joyous mirth; furled? 

Fragrance fanning off from llowers. melody of sum- 
mer showers. Only this our yearning answers : whereso'er that way 
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy defile, 

autumn hearth. Xot a film shall part us through the seons of that 

might}- while. 
That's our love. But j-ou and I. dear — shall we linger In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still 

with it j-et. togethei-, 

Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's 

golden net — great smile. 

Hakkiet Pkescott Spofeokd. 



THE ETERNAL REST. 




^HEX I bethink me on that speech whyleare 
Of Mutability, and well it way. 
~^^=-'^ Me seemes. that though she all unworthy were 
Of the heav'ns rule. yet. very sooth to saj'. 
In all things else she bears the greatest sway; 
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle. 
And love of things so vaine to cast away : 
Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle. 
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming 
sickle. 



ITien gin I thinke on that which Xature sayd. 
Of that same time when no uioi-e change shall be, 
But steadfast rest of all things, firmely stayd 
Upon the piUours of Eternity. 
TTiat is contrayr to Mutabilitie ; 
For all that moveth doth in change delight. 
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
With him that is the God of Sabaoth hight; 
thou great .Sabaoth God, Grant me that Sabbath's 
sight! 

Edmunu Spenser. 



THE BETTER LAND. 



817 



I WOULD NOT LIVE ALAYAY. 



gm WOULD not live ahvay : I ask not to staj' 
i^ Where storm after storm rises dark o"er the way; 
^ Where, v^eekiug for rest, I hut hover around 
Y Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting; is found; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the 
air. 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray. 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alwaj', thus fettered by sin, 
Teni]jtation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain. 
Scarce the factory's mine ei-e I'm captive again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears. 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs. 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 



I would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. 
There, too. is the pillow where Christ Ijowed his 

head — 
O, soft be mj' slumbers on that holj' bed ! 



And then the glad morn soon to follow that night. 
When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, 
And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise. 
To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. 

Wlio, who would live alway, awaj' from his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. 
Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, 
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 

The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. 

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, 

The King all arrayed in his beautj' behold ! 

O give me, O give me the wings of a dove! 

Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. 

Ay, 'tis now that my sonl on swift pinions would soar, 

And in ecstacy bid earth adieu evermore. 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 



THE EEST OF THE SOUL. 



^N that hour which of all the twenty-four is most emblematical of heaven and 
^ suggestive of repose, the eventide, in which instinctively Isaac went into the 
fields to meditate — when the work of the day is done, when the mind has 
** ceased its tension, when the passions are lulled to rest in spite of themselves, 
by the spell of the quiet starlit sky — it is then, amidst the silence of the lull of 
all the lower parts of our nature, that the soul comes forth to do its work. Then 
the peculiar, strange work of the soul, which the intellect cannot do, meditation 
begins ; awe and worship and wonder are in full exercise ; and love begins then 
its purest form of mystic adoration, and pervasive and undefined tenderness, separate 
from all that is coarse and earthly, swelling as if it would embrace the All in its 
desire to bless, and lose itself in the sea of the love of God. This is the rest of 
the soul — the exercise and play of all the nobler powers. 

F. W. Robertson. 



THE ETERNAL HOME. 






;HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; 
So calm are we when passions are no more. 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 



The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made: 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. 

As they draw near to their eternal home. 

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 

That stand upon the tln-eshold of the new. 

Edmund Waller. 



818 



THE GOLDEX TREA^LTiY. 



•• FOLLOTV AIE.- 



^IKHE shadow of the mountain fall? athwart the 
^^ lowly plain. 

"•^^ Ad(1 the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above 
? the mountain's head: 

And the highest hearts and lowest wear the 

shadow of somef pain. 
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the 
anguished tear is shed. 

For no eyes have there been ever ^vithout a weary 

tear. 
And those lips cannot be human which have never 

heaved a sigh : 
For without the dreary winter there has never been a 

year. 
And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest 

summer skv. 



So this dreamy life is passing — and we move amidst 

its maze. 
And we grope along together, half in darkness, half 

in light; 
And om- hearts are often burdened with the mysterie-s 

of our ways, 
Which ai-e never all in shadow, and are never wholly 

bright. 

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a 

guide. 
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning 

and the key: 
And a cross gleams o"er our pathway, on it hangs the 

Crucified. 
And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, 

••Follow Me."" 

Abram T. Eta>. 



ALL BEFORE. 



HEAETS that never cease to yearn . 

O brimming tears that ne"er are dried I 
The dead, though they depart, return 

As though they had not died! 

The living are the only dead : 
The dead live — nevermore to die I 

And often when we mourn them fled. 
They never were so nigh ! 

And though they lie beneath the waves. 

Or sleep within the churchyard dim — 
(Ah : through how many different graves 

God's children go to himi ) — 

Yet every gi-ave gives up its dead 
Ere it is overgrown with grass : 

Then why should hopeless tears be shed. 
Or need we crv. •• Alas"* ? 



Or why should Memory, veiled ^ith gloom, 
And like a sorro\ving mourner craped. 

Sit weeping o'er an empt^' tomb. 
TThose captives have escaped? 

"Tis but a mound, and wUl be mossed 
Whene'er the summer grass appears; 

The loved, though wept, are never lost; 
We only lose — our tears I 

Xay. Hope may whisper with the dead 

By bending f oiTxard where they are : 
But Memory, vrith a backward tread. 
Commrmes with them afar. 

The joys we lose are but forecast. 

And we shall find them aU once more ; 
We look behind us for the Past, 

But lo : 'tis aU before I 



THE DIVIXE ABuDE. 



'E golden lamps of heaven, farewell. 
: With all your feeble light! 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon 
Pale empress of the night! 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed : 
My sonl. that springs beyond thy sphere. 

Xo more demands thv aid. 



Ye stars are but the shining dust 

Of my divine abode ; 
The pavement of those heavenly courts 

AVhere I shall see my God. 

There all the mUlions of his saints 

Shall in one song unite : 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 

Philip Doddridge. 



THE BETTER LAND. 



819 



SAFE TO THE LAND. 



I 



KXOW uot if the dark or bright 

Shall be my lot; 
If that wherein my hopes delight, 

Be best or not. 

It may be mine to drag for years 

Toil's heavy chain; 
Or day or night, mj' meat be tears, 

On bed of pain. 

Dear faces maj' surroimd my hearth 

With smile and glee, 
Or I may dwell alone, and mirth 

Be strange to me. 

My bark is wafted to the strand 
By breath divine. 



And on the helm there rests a Hand 
Other than mine. 

One who has ever known to sail 

I have on board ; 
Above the raging of the gale 

I hear my Lord. 

He holds me ; ^vhen the billows smite 

I shall not fall ; 
If sharp, 'tis short; if long, 'tis light; 

He tempers all. 

Safe to the land, safe to the land I 

The end is this ; 
And then with Him go hand in hand, 

Far into bliss. 

Henry Alford. 



OVER THE RIVER. 



^^^R the river they beckon to me— 
Ipi' Loved ones who "ve passed to the further side ; 
A The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
* But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 

There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; 
We saw not the angels who met him there. 
The gates of the city we could not see — 
Over the river, over the river, 
My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet ; 
Her brown cnrls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darling Minnie I I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands. 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
We know she is safe on the further side. 

Where all the ransomed and angels be — 
Over the river, the mystic river. 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 



For none return from those quiet shores, 

"Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo I they have passed from our yearning heart, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye ; 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea. 
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved ^\•ho have gone before. 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Xancy Priest Wakefield. 



-a^y^ 



IKOOKING calmly yet humbly for the close of my mortal career, which cannot be far 
HPI distant, I reverently thank God for the blessings vouchsafed me in the past, and 
"W^ with an awe that is not fear, and a consciousness of demerit that does not exclude 
hope, await the opening before my steps of the gates of the eternal world. 

Horace Greeley. 



820 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



PARTED FRIENDS. 



pRIEXD after friend departs; 



Wm Who hath uot lost a frieud? 
'f f^ There is no union here of hearts 
J-l That finds not here an end I 

Were this frail world our final ]-est. 

Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time — 
Beyond the reign of death — 

There surelj' is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath: 

Nor life's affections transient fire. 

Whose sparlis fiy upward and expire ! 



There is a world above 

A\Tiere parting is unknown ! 
A long eternity of love, 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here 
Translated to that glorious sphere ! 

Thus star by star declines 

Till all are passed away; 
As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in eniptj' night. 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light. 
James Montgomery. 



THE ETERNAL. 



||P|HE One remains, the many change and pass ; 
^^ Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows 

»ff Life, like a dome of many-colored glass. 
Stains the white radiance of Eternit}\ 
Until Death tramples it "to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 
Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky, 
Flowei'S, ruins, statues, music — words are weak 
The glorj^ they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 

Why linger, ■why turn back, why shrink, my heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! 
A light is passed from the revolving year. 
And man and woman; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft skjr smiles, — the low wind whispers near : 
"T is Adonais calls! oh. hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can join together. 



That Light whose smile kindles the universe, 
That beautj' in which all things work and move, 
That benediction which the eclipsing curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindlj' wove 
By man and beast, and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim. as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me. my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling tlirong 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven : 
1 am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 
While, burning through the inmost veil of heaven. 
The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



BEYOND THE HILLS. 



^O^EYOND the hills where suns go down. 
ii^ And brightly beckon as they go. 

fl see the land of fair renown. 
The land which I so soon shall know. 

Above the dissonance of time. 
And discord of its angry words, 

I hear the everlasting chime. 
The music of unjarring chords. 

I bid it welcome; and my haste 
To join it cannot brook delay. 



O, song of morning, come at last, 
And }'e who sing it come awaj% 

O, song of light, and dawn, and bliss, 
Sound over earth, and fill these skies! 

Nor ever, ever, ever cease 
Thy soul-entrancing melodies! 

Glad song of this disburdened earth. 

Which holy voices then shall sing; 
Praise for creation's second birth. 

And glorj' to creation's King! 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



£^-.<5X5^SK'^^^ 



Part XIV. 



3Ht^ tM^ntou^ 



I 



MISCELL AN EOUS. 



3--i<r^Is_ 




"Silence sleeps on the earth and air, 
Never a breath does the sea-breeze blow." 



DOWN IN THE HARBOR THE SHIPS LIE MOORED. 



p^jOWN in the harbor the ships lie moored, 

Weary sea-birds with folded wing, — 

Anchors sunken and sails secured; 

Yet on the \\ater they rock and swing. 

Rock and swing, 

As though each keel were a living thing 



As a child on its mother's breast, 
Cradled in liax)pj^ slumber, lies, 

Yet, half-conscious of joj^ and rest. 
Varies its breathing, and moves and sighs, 
Moves and sighs. 

Yet neither wakes nor opens its eyes. 



Silence sleeps on the earth and air, 
Never a breath does the sea-breeze blow. 

Yet like living pelidulums there, 
Down in the harbor, to and fro. 
To and fro. 

Backward and forward the vessels go. 



Or it maj' be, the vessels long — 
For almost human they seem to me — 

For the leaping waves, and the storm-wind strong, 
And the fetterless freedom out at sea. 
Out at sea. 

And feel their rest a captivity. 

823 



824 



THE GOLDEX TREASUHY. 



So as a soul from a higher sphere. 

Fettered down to this earthlj- clay. 
Strives at the chains that bind it here, 

Tossing and struggling, day bj' day, 
Day by day. 
Longing to break them and flee away, 



Sti-ive the ships in their restlessness, 

"Whether the tide be high or low ; — 
And why these tear-drops, I cannot guess, 
As down in the harbor, to and fro. 
To and fro. 
Backward and forward the vessels o-o. 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 




e^^ 



" He took the little ones up on his knee." 

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 



MM ^^^S a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
^^ Tall and slender, aud sallow, and diy; 
T His form was bent, aud his gait was slow, 
f His long, thin hair was as white as snow'; 
1 But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, 

And he sang every night as he went to bed. 
•' Let us be happy down here below; 
The living should live, though the dead be dead,' 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



He taught his scholars the rule of three, 

Writing, and reading, and history too; 
He took the little ones up on his knee. 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 

And the wants of the littlest child he knew: 
•• Learn while you "re young." he often said, 

'■ There is much to enjoy down here below; 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead,"' 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



«25 



With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 

Speaking onl}' in gentlest tones; 
The rod was hardly known in his school ; 
Whipping to him was a harharous rule. 

And too hard work for his poor old hones; 
Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said, 

'' We should make life pleasant down here below. 
The living need charitj^ more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door; 
His rooms were quiet and neat and plain, 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign. 

And made him forget he was old and poor. 
" 1 need so little,"* he often said, 

"And my friends and relatives here below 
Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 

Melted all over in snnshiny smiles ; — 
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace. 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace. 

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles ;- 
" I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 

"• I've lingered a long while here below ; 
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is tied! " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 
While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
Leaving its tenderest kisses there 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown; 
And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, 

'Twas a gioiious world down here below; 
" Why wait for happiness till we are dead? " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.'* 



But the pleasantest times that he had, of all. 

Were the sociable hours he used to pass. 
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 
Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass; — 
This was the finest pleasure, he said. 

Of the many he tasted here below; 
" ^\^lo has no cronies had better be dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



He sat at his door one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindlj' old face look warm and bright, 

"While the odorous night- wind whispered " Rest! 
Gentlj^ geutly he bowed his head, — 

There \\ere angels waiting for him, I know 
He was sure of hapi^iness, living or dead, 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

George Arnold. 



HERE 'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE. 



^^pERE 'S to thein, to them that are gane; 
Hl^ Here's to them, to tliem that are gane; 
Wi Here's to them that were here, the faithful and 
I dear. 

That will never be here again — no, never. 
But where are they now that are gane ? 
Oh, where are the faithful and true? 
They 're gane to the light that fears not the night. 
An" their day of rejoicing shall end — no, never. 

Here 's to them, to them that were here ; 
Here 's to tliem, to them that were here; 
Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by. 
But 't was ne'er like what 's coming, to last forever. 



Oh, bright was their morning sun ! 
Oh, blight was their morning sun! 
Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down; 
But the storm and the cloud are now past — forever. 

Fareweel. fareweel! parting silence is sad; 
Oh, how sad the last paitiug tear ! 
But that silence shall break, where no tear on the 
cheek 
Can bedim the bright vision again— no, never. 
Then speed to the wings of old Time, 
That waft us where pilgrims would be; 
To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest, 
AMiere the full tide of glory shall How — forever. 
Lady Caroline Nairne. 



-iS=S— 6=^ 



THE TOPER'S APOLOG-Y. 



pP'M often asked by plodding souls 
■iiSs And men of sober tongue, 
X What joy I take in draining bowls 
■i- And tippling all night long. 



But though these cautious knaves I scorn. 

For once I '11 not disdain 
To tell them why I sit till morn 

And fill my glass again. 



826 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



'Tis by the glow my bumper gives, 
Life's picture 's mellow made; 

The fading light theu brightly lives 
Aud softly sinks the shade. 




" In life I 've run all changes through, 
Run every pleasure down." 

Some happier tint still rises there 
With every drop I drain ; 

And that I thinly 's a reason fair 
To fill my glass again. 



My Muse, too, when her wings are diy, 

Xo frolic flights will take, 
But round the bowl she '11 dip and fly, 

Like swallows round a lake. 
Then, if each nymph will have her shaj-e, 

Before she "11 bless her swain, 
"\Vh}% that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again . 

In life I "ve rung all changes through, 

Run every pleasure down, 
Tried all exti-emes of folly too, 

Aud lived with half the tcnvn ; 
For me there 's nothing new noi- rare, 

Till wine deceives mj^ brain; 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

I find, too, when I stint my glass, 

And sit with sober air, 
I "m prosed by some dull reasoning ass 

Who treads the path of care ; 
Or. harder still, am doomed to bear 

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain ; 
And that I 'm sure 's a i-eason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

There 's many a lad I knew is dead. 

And many a lass grown old, 
And as the lesson strikes my head, 

My weary heart grows cold ; 
But wine awhile drives off despair — 

Xay, bids a hope remain; 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Charles Morris. 



'3^-2 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



'PpRWAS the night before Christmas, M'hen all 
#fc§ through the house 

X Xot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
4i 'llie stockings were hung by the chimney with 
care. 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their 

heads ; 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap. 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should api:)ear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. 



With a little old di-iver, so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his com'sers they came. 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them b}' 

name : 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancei-! aud 

Vixen! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzeu! 
To the top of the porcli ! to the top of the Avail ! 
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"' 

As drj' leaves that before the wild bumcane fly, 
AMien they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 
bound. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



»27 



He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 

soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 
His ej-es, how they twinkled! his dimples, how 



merry 



His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 



He was chubby and plumjj — a right jolly old e<f — 
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself; 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a 

jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to the sleigh, to the team gave a whistle. 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle. 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night! ' 

Clement C. Moore. 



» 



I 




*' Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; 
And nightly, to the listening Earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth." 



THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH. 



i^ppKHE spacious firmament on high, 
^^f*^ With all the blue ethereal sky, 
'If'" And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
I Their great Original proclaim. 
51 



The unwearied Sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display; 
And publishes, to everj^ land. 
The work of an almighty hanf''. 



828 



THE GOLDEX TREASUHY. 



Soou as the eveuiug shades prevail. 
The Moou takes up the woudrous tale ; 
And nightly, to the listening Earth, 
Eepeats the story of her hirth : 
"VMiilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets, in their turn, 
Contlrni the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 



"What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found : 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing as they shine, 
'•The hand that made us is divine." 

Joseph Audisok. 



NEG-RO REVIVAL HYMN. 



5p^jII, whar shill we go w*en de great day comes, 
^^ Wid de blowiu" er de trunipits en de bangin' er 
de drums? 
How many po' sinners '11 be kotched out late 
En fine no latch ter de golden gate? 



Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en boF, 
En answer to der name at de callin' er de roU? 
You better come now ef you comin' — 
Ole Satuu is loose en a bummin' — 
De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin' — 
Oh, come 'long, sinners, ef you comin' ! 

De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song, 
En de Pairidise win' blow fur en blow strong, 
^ En Aberhams bosom, hits saft en hits wide, 
'=; En right dar's de place whar de sinners oughter hide I 
Oh, you nee'n ter be a stoppin' en a lookin'; 
Ef you fool wid ole Satun you'll git took in; 
You '11 hang on de aidge en get shook in, 
Ef you keep on a stoppin' en a lookin'. 




" De time is right now, en dish 5'er's de place.' 



No use fer ter wait twell ter-morrer, 
De suD mnsn't set on yo' sorrer, — 
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier — 
O Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher! 

W'en de nashuns er de earf is a standin' all aroun'. 
■VATio's a gwine ter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glory- 
crown? 



De time is right now; en dish yer's de place — 
Let de sun er salvashun shine squar' in yo' face; 
Fight de battles er de Lord, fight soon en fight late. 
En you "11 allers fine a latch ter de golden gate ; 

Xo use fer ter wait tvvel ter-morrer, 

De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer, — 

Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier. 

Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher ! 

Joel Chandlek Harris. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



829 



THE OLD SHEPHERD'S DOG. 



^HE old Shepherd's dog, like his master, was 

gi-ay, 
His teeth all departed and feeble his tongue; 
Yet where'er Coriu went he was followed by 
Tray ; 
Thiis happy through life did they hobble 
along. 



--^«'=^'^^1'!'':^ 



If Corin went forth 'mid the tempests and rain, 
Tray scorned to be left in the chimney behind. 

At length, in the straw Tray made his last bed — 
For vain, against Death, is the stoutest endeavor; 

To licli Corin's hand he reared up his weak head, 
Then fell back, closed his eyes, and, ah! closed 
them forever. 




" The old Shepherd's dog, like his master, was gray. 



Wben fatigued, on the grass the Shepherd would lie. 
For a nap in the sun — 'midst his slumbers so sweet. 

His faithful companion crawled constantly nigh. 
Placed his head on his lap or lay down at his feet. 

When winter was heard on the hill and the plain, 
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind. 



Not long after Tray did the Shepherd remain, 
"VVho oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would 
bend; 
And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor 
swain : 
" Oh, bury me, neighbors, beside my old friend! " 
John Wolcott (Peter Pindar) . 



^^OOKS are the true levelers 



They give to all who faithfully use them the society, 



the spiritual presence, of the greatest and best of our race. 



830 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUHY. 



THE BELLS. 



i:;EAIl the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells! 
WTiat a world of merriment their melody fore- 
tells : 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells, 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the beUs. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells- 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

Hear the loud alai'um bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency teUs ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the Are, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fii-e 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 



Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows. 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells — 

Of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 



Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
pels! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright, 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For everj' sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
Thej^ are neither brute nor human — 

The.y are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A paean from the bells ! 
And his meny bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paean of the bells — 
Of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhvme. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



831 



To the throbbing of the bells - 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 



To the rolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 

To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 

Bells, bells, bells. 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



jy^c--^ 



Edgar Allen Poe. 







"I mind dem Sat'day a'ternoons, 

"When, out befo' de cabins, all 
De darkies sat — sich happy loons!" 



AUNT SILYA MEETS YOUNG- MAS'R JOHN. 




HY, hi! young Mas'r John, dat you? 

Well, bless de goodness, so it is ! 
An' shake Aunt Silvy's han', you do? 

D' ole 'Oman's mons'ous proud o" dis; 
Dese ole eyes mighty dim, Mas' .John, 
An' streamin' tears don't help 'ein none: 

How is it wid me? Well, you see, 
'T aint no time been so good but what 

Ole mas'r's home befo' we's free 
Is nebber in de least fo"got — 

Dese twenty years since I was dah, 

An' you was flghtin' in de wah. 

I mind dem Sat'day a'ternoons. 
When, out befo' de cabins, all 

De darkies sat — sich happy loons! — 
To rest an' talk, an" laugh an' bawl. 



I likes my freedom, fust an' last. 

But still I cries 'bout whafs done past. 

My ole man's in his grave, long 'go — 
Some chilluns dead, none lef wid me; 

I 's gittin' mighty feeble, now, 
An' lonesome in dis world, you see. 

Where does Ilib? I 's got no home. 

So here an' dah I has to roam. 

You 's bought de ole place, you, Mas' John? 

An' takes me back to rest, you say? 
De cabin's mine? Bless God, t 'm done 

Wid troubles till my dyin' day! 
Young mas'r, Silvj' '11 serve you still. 
An" God will lub you. dat He will! 

Ed. Porter Thompson. 



832 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



THE GEAVE. 



.. .,jPHERE is a calm for those who weep, 
^ts A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 



ITiey softly lie, and sweetly sleep, 

Low in the ground. 



'• The Grave, that never spoke before, 

Hath found, at last, a tongue to chide : 
O listen ! I will speak uo more — 

Be silent, pride! 



The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
No more distui'bs their deep repose 
Than summer evening's latest sigh, 

That shuts the rose. 

I long to lay this painful head 

And aching heart beneath the soil — 
To slumber in that dreamless bed 

From all my toil. 



" Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn. 

The victim of consuming care? 
Is thy distracted conscience torn 

By fell despair? 

" Do foul misdeeds of former times 

Wring with remorse thy guilty breast? 
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 

Murder thy rest? 




For misery stole me at my birth, 

And cast me helpless on the wild. 
I perish — oh, my mother Earth, 

Take home thy child! 

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 

Shall gently molder into thee; 
Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
Resembling me. 

Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear; 

My pulse, my brain runs wild ! I rave! 
Ah, who art tliou whose voice I hear? 

— "I am the Gravel 



" Lashed by the furies of the mind, 

From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee? 
Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to tind 
A friend in me ! 

" I charge thee, live — repent and pray! 

In dust thine infamy deplore! 
There yet is mercy. Go thy way. 

And sin no more. 

" Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be. 

Confess thy folly — kiss the rod. 
And in thy chastening sorrows see 

The hand of God. 

" A bruised reed lie will not break : 

Afflictions all His chiUlrpii feel; 
He wounds them for His 7nercy"s sake — 
He wounds to heal! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



66'6 



" Humbled beneath His mighty hand, 

Prostrate His providence adore. 
'Tis done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand, 
To fall no more. 

" Now, traveler in the vale of tears, 
To realms of everlasting light, 



And while the moldering ashes sleep 

Low in the ground, 

"The soul, of origin divine, 

God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, 
A star of day ! 




" On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 
Shall gently moulder into thee " 



Through Time's dark wilderness of years 
Pursue thy flight ! 

" There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 



" The snn is but a spark of fire, 
A ti'ansient meteor in the sky : 
The soul, immortal as its sire. 

Shall never die." 

James Montgomeky. 



-a^S^-2- 



THE WORLD. 



g?3 



SAW eternity the other night. 
Like a great ring of pure and endless light. 
All calm, as it was bright; 
I And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, 
1 years. 

Driven by the spheres 

Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world 

And all her train were hurled. 



The doting lover, in his quaintest sti'ain. 

Did there complain; 
Near him his lute, his fancj'. and his flights. 

Wit's sour delights; 
With gloves and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, 

Yet his dear treasiu'e 
All scattered lay, while he his eyes eyes did pour 

Upon a flower. 



834 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



Q."he darksome statesman, hung with weights and 

woe. 
Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow. 

He did not stay nor go; 
Condemning thoughts, like mad eclipses, scowl 

LTpon his soul. 
And clouds of crying witnesses without 

Pursued him with one shout. 
Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways he found, 

Workt under ground, 
Where he did clutch his prey; hut one did see 

That policy ; 
Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries 

Were gnats and flies ; 
It rained about him blood and tears; but he 

Drank them as free. 



The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, 

And scorned pretence ; 
While others, slipt into a wide excess, 

Said little less ; 
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave, 

Who think them brave, 
And poor, despised truth sat counting by 

Their victorj-. 

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, 
And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; 

But most would use no wing. 
" O fools,"' said I, " thus to prefer dark night 

Before true light ! 
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day 

Because it shows the wav. — 




The fearful miser, on a heap of rust. 

Sat pining all his life there; did scarce ti'ust 

His own hands with the dust ; 
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives 

In fear of thieves. 
Thousands there were, as frantic as himself, 

And hugged each one his pelf; 



The way which, fiom this dead and dark abode. 

Leads up to God ; 
A way where you might tread the sun, and be 

More bright than he! " 
But, as I did their madness so discuss. 

One whispered thus, 
" This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, 

But for his bride.'' 

Henry Vaughan. 



-c— 't-^i^/S^5^2/aT^'>— ^»- 



WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 



'XJT'E crags and peaks. I'm with you once again! 

'^*H I hold to you the hands you first beheld. 

"^^ To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
L A spirit in your echoes answer me, 
"t And bid your tenant weloome to his home 
Again! O sacred forms, how proud ye look! 

How high you lift your heads into the sky! 

How huge you arc! how mighty and liow free! 



Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile 
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms. 
Robed or imrobed. do all the imi^ress wear 
Of awe di\ine. Ye guards of liberty! 
I'm with you once again!— I call to you 
"With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you 
To show they still are free. I rush to you. 
As though I could embrace you! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



835 



Scaliug yonder peak, 

I saw an eagle wheeling, near its brow. 

O'er the abyss. His broad, expanded wings 

Lay calm and motionless upon the air. 

As if he had floated there, without their aid, 

By the sole act of his unlorded will, 

That buoyed him proudly up ! Instinctively 

I bent my bow; j-et wheeled he, heeding not 

The death that threatened him ! I could not shoot! 

'T was liberty! I turned my bow aside, 

And let him soar away. 



In my boat at night, when down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring — sat in it, and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, arid smiled 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head. 
And think I had no master, save his own ! 

You know the jutting cliff, round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 
To such another one, with scanty room 
For two to pass abreast? O'ertaken there 
By the mountain-blast, I 've laid me flat along 




" Yc cr.i2^s and peaks, I'm with \'oii once attain." 



Once Switzerland was free ! O, with what pride 
I used to walk these hills, look up to heaven, 
And bless God that it was so ! It was free ! 
From end to end. from cliff to lake, 't was free! 
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks. 
And plough our valleys without asking leave; 
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 
In very presence of the regal sun ! 
How happy was I in it then ! I loved 
Its very storms ! Ay, often have I sat 



And while gust followed gust more furiously. 
As if 't -would sweep me o'er the horrid brink. 
And I have thought of other lands, w hose storms 
Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just 
Have wished me there, — the thought that mine was 

free 
Has checked that wish ; and I have raised my head, 
And cried, in thraldom, to that furious wind, 
"Blow on! — This is the land of liberty! '' 

James Siiekiuan Knowles. 



The swoi'd is but a hideous flash in the darkness — rio-ht is an eternal ray. 



836 



THE GOLDEN TREASUEY. 



MY HEART 'S IN THE HIGHI-ANDS. 




I. 



§Y heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
here; 
My heart 's in tlie Highlands a chasing the 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; 



n. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with 

snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here. 
My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; 




"Farewell to the mountains higfh covered with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green vallevs below.'* 



Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 



Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Robert Burns. 



THE HAVEN. 




'Tis 



CE upon a midnight dreary. 
While I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- 
gotten lore, 
Wlile I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping. 

Rapping at my chamber door, 
some visitor," I nuittered, ''tapping at my 
chamber door — 

Onlv this, and nothino; more." 



Ah, distinctly I remember. 
It was in the bleak December. 
And each separate djing ember wrought its ghost 
upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; 
Vainly I had ti-ied to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — 
Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore — 
Xameless here for evermore. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 837 

And the silken, sad, uncertain Then this ebony bird beguiling 

Rustling of each purple curtain My sad faucy into smiling, 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 

before ; wore, 

So that now, to still the beating "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven. 

Of my heart, I stood rej^eating. Thou," I said, '• art sure no craven, 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, 

Entrance at my chamber door — . Wandering from the Nightly shore — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 

door; tonian shore ! " 

This it is, aad nothing more." Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; Much 1 marvelled this ungainly 

Hesitating then no longer, Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I Though its answer little meaning, little relevancj^ 

implore; bore; 

But the fact is, I was napping. For we cannot help agreeing 

And so geutly you came rapping. That no living human being 

And so faintly you came tapping, Ever yet was blessed with seeing 

Tapping at my chamber door. Bird above his chamber door — 

That I scarce was sure I heard you," — here I opened Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 

wide the door : chamber door — 

Darkness there, and nothing more! With such name as " Nevermore." 

Deep into that darkness peering. But the Raven sitting lonely 

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, On the placid bust, spoke only 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

dream before: outpour. 

But the silence was unbroken, Nothing further then he uttered — 

And the darkness gave no token. Not a feather then he fluttered — 

And the onlj^ word there spoken Till I scarcely moi-e than muttered, 

Was the whispered word, " Lenore!" " Other friends have flown before— 

This / whispered, and an echo nnu-mured back the On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 

word, "Lenore!" flown before." 

Merely this, and nothing more. Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Then into the chamber turning. Startled at the stillness broken 
All my soul within me burning, By reply so aptly spoken, 
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than " Doubtless,'" said I, "w^hat it utters is its only stock 
before. and store, 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is Caught from some unhappy master 
Something at my window lattice ; Whom unmerciful Disaster 
Let me see, then, what thereat is. Followed fast and followed faster 
And this mystery explore— Till his songs one burden bore- 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex- Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden 
plore ; bore 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" Of ' Nevermore '—of ' Nevermore." " 

Open here I flung the shutter. But the Raven still beguiling 
When, with many a flirt and flutter. All my sad soul into smiling. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, 
yore; and bust, and door; 
Not the least obeisance made he; Then upon the velvet sinking. 
Not an instant stopped or stayed he; I betook myself to linking 
But, with mien of lord or lady, Fancy unto fancy, thinking 
Perched above my chamber door— What this ominous bird of yore- 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous 
door— bird of yore 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Meant in croaking. •■ Nevermore." 



838 



THE GOLDEN TREASLTHY. 



This I sat engaged in guessing. 
But no syllable expressing 
To the fowl ^vhose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core; 
This and more I sat divining, 
With mj' head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining, 
That the lamplight gloated o'er; 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er, 
She shall press, ah, never moi-e ! 



■• Prophet," said I, "thing of evil — 
Prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we 
both adore — 
Tell this sold with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall ohisp a sainted maiden 
Whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore." 
Quoth the Eaven, " Xevermore.'" 



Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
Perfumed from an unseen censer. 
Swung b}' angels whose faint footfalls tinkled on the 
tufted floor. 
"Wretch,'' I cried, " thy God hath lent thee. 
B}^ these angels he hath sent thee. 
Respite — respite and nepenthe 
From thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
Lenore!" 
Quoth the Raven, ■• Xevermore.'' 



"Be that word our sign of parting. 
Bird or fiend!"' I shrieked, upstarting— 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore! 
Leave no black illume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — 
Quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out mj' heart, and take thy form 
from off my door!" 
Quoth the Raven, " Xevermore.'' 



"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! — 
Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
here ashore. 
Desolate, yet all undaunted. 
On this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — 
Tell me truly. I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? tell me — tell me. I 
implore!" 
Quoth the Raven, •■ Xevermore." 



And the Raven, never flitting. 
Still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
door; 
And his e3'es have all the seeming 
Of a demon that is dreaming; 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming 
Throws his shadow on the floor: 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



'e^JC-'^ 



THERE IS MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN AND NIGHT ON THE VALE. 



?HERE is mist on the mountain and night on the 
vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the 
j-l Gael. 

A stranger commanded — it sunk on the land. 
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every 
hand ! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust: 
On the hill or the glen ii a gun should api^ear. 
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our burds should rehearse 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of theii- verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone. 
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. 



But the dark hours of night and of slumber are 

past. 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays. 
And the streams of Glenfiunan leap bright in the 

bhize. 

O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled — the dear! 
In the blush of the dawning the Standard up rear! 
Wide, wide to the winds of the north let it fly. 
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall 

break. 
Xeed the harp of the aged remind you to wake? 
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye 
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



839 



O sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, 
Proud chiefs of Clan-Kauald, Glengarry, and Sleat! 
Combine like three streams from one mountain of 

snow, 
And resistless in union rush down on the foe I 

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy 

steel! 
Bough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold 

swell, 
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, 
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild In the gale! 
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free, 
Eemember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee! 

Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring has 

given 
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, 
Unite with the race of renowned Rori More, 
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar! 

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall 

display 
The yew-crested bonnet o"er tresses of graj''! 
How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered 

Glencoe 
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe ! 

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, 
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More ! 
Mac-lSTeil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, 
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake! 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake ! 
Brave sons of the mountain, the fi-ith, and the lake! 
'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call; 
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the 
hall. 



'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death. 
When the banners are blazing on mountain and 

heath ; 
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe. 
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. 




"Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, 
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell ! " 

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! 
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of 

fire! 
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore 1 
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE DREAM OF ARG-YLE. 



lARTHLY arms no more uphold him; 
^'* On his prison's stony floor. 

Waiting death, in his last slumber, 
Lies the doomed MacCallum More. 

And he dreams a dream of boyhood; 

Rise again his heathery hills, 
Sound again the hound's long baying, 

Cry of moor-fowl, laugh .of rills. 

Now he stands amidst his clansmen 
In the low, long banquet-hall. 



Over grim, ancestral armor 
Sees the ruddy fu'elight fall. 

Once again, with pulses beating, 
Hears the wandering minstrel tell 

How Montrose on Inverary 
Thief-like from his mountains fell. 

Down the glen, beyond the castle. 
Where the linn's swift waters shine. 

Round the youthful heir of Argyle 
Shy feet glide and white arms twine. 



840 



THE GOLDEJ^ TEEASUEY. 




Now he hears the pipes lamenting, 
Harpers lor his mother mourn, 

Slow, with sable plume and pennon, 
To her cairn of bm-ial borne. 

Then anon his dreams are darker. 
Sounds of battle fill his ears. 

And the pibroch's mournful wailing 
For his father's fall he hears. 

Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes 
Wail in concert for the dead. 

And Loch Awe's deep waters murmur 
For the Campbell's glory fled ! 

Fierce and strong the godless tyrants 

Trample the apostate land. 
While her poor and faithful remnant 

Wait for the avenger's hand. 

Once again at Inverary, 

Years of weary exile o'er, 
Ai'med to lead his scattered clansmen, 

Stands the bold MacCallum More. 

Once again to battle calling 

Sound the war-pipes through the glen, 
And the court-yard of Dunstaffnage 



AH is lost! the godless triumph. 

And the faithful ones and true 
From the scaffold and the prison 

Covenant with God anew. 

On the darkness of his dreaming 
Great and sudden glory shone; 

Over bonds and death victorious 
Stands he by the Father's U'hrone! 

From the radiant ranks of martyrs 
Notes of joj' and praise he hears. 

Songs of his poor land's deliverance 
Sounding from the future years. 

Lo, he wakes! but airs celestial 

Bathe him in immortal rest. 
And he sees with unsealed vision 

Scotland's cause with victory blest. 

Shining hosts attend and guard him 

As he leaves his prison door; 
And to death as to a triumph 

Walks the great MacCallum More ! 

Elizabeth H. Whittter. 



" Down the <i\<ji\. bciniul tlic castlr. 
Where the linn's swift waters shine.' 

Fairest of the rustic dancers. 
Bine-eyed Effle smiles once more. 

Bends to him her snooded tresses. 
Treads with him the grassy floor. 



^j^pOW charming is divine philosophy! 

^^i Not harsh and crabb6d, as dull fools 
suppose. 
But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



841 



CHILDHOOD'S PRAYER 



^^'S now I lay me down to sleep, 
^Hk May angel guards around ine keep, 
^^^^ Through all the silent hours of night, 
J4 Their watch and ward till moruiug light. 
Dim evening shades around me creep, 
As now I lay me down to sleep. 



If I should die before I wake ; 

If I this night the world forsake, 

And leave the friends I hold most dear, 

Leave all that I so value here ; 

And if Thy call my slumbers break— 

If I should die before I wake, 




"Now I lay me down to sleep.' 



I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. 
The while I wake or while I sleep ; 
And while I M'ork and while I play. 
Give me Thy grace, that, day by day, 
Thy love may in my heart grow deep, 
1 pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. 



I praj'^ Thee, Lord, my soul to take; 
I praj"- that Thou wouldst for me make 
Close at Thy feet a lowly place. 
Where I may e'er behold Thj' face, 
And this I ask for Thj^ dear sake — 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. 



842 



THE GOLDEX TREASURY, 



While bending at my mother's knee, 
This little prayer she taught to me — 
" Now as I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep; 



If 1 should die before I wake, 

1 pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. 



Newton S. Otis. 




THE LADY'S "YES." 




ES," I answered you last night; 
"No," this morning, sir, I say. 
Colors seen by candle-light 
Will not look the same by daJ^ 

AVhen the viols played their best, 
Lamps above, and laughs below, 

Love me sounded like a jest, 
Fit for yes or fit for no. 

Call me false or call me free, 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 

No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both; 
Time to dance is not to woo ; 



Wooing light makes fickle ti'Oth, 
Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly, as the thing is high, 
Bravely, as for life and death, 

With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards, 

Point her to the starry skies. 
Guard her, by your truthful words, 

Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

B.y your truth she shall be true. 

Ever true, as wives of yore; 
And her yes, once said to you. 

Shall be Yes forevermore. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



843 



THE LAST LEAF. 



SA.W him once before, 
As he passed by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 




And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin. 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him bei-e, 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Ai'e so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 






" But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer." 



They say that in his prime. 
Ere the pruning-knife of time 

Cut him down, 
Kot a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

Bnt now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan. 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
And it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has pressed 
In their bloom; 
52 




THE NOBLE NATURE. 

i 

l|T is not growing like a tree 

M In bulk, doth make man better be ; 

r Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 

I To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sere : 

1 A lily of a day 

Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night — 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 
In small proportions we jnst beauties see; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson. 



844 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



OF A CONTENTED MIND, 




HEX all is done and said, 

In the end thus shall yoti And, 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 

That hath a quiet mind ; 
And, clear from worldly cares. 

To deem can be content 
The s^Yeetest time in all his life. 

In thinking to be spent. 



Companion none is like 

Unto the mind alone ; 
For many have been harmed by speech, 

Through thinking, few or none. 
Fear oftentimes resti-aineth words, 

But makes not thought to cease ; 
And he speaks best that hath the skill 

When for to hold his peace. 




' The sweetest time of all my life 
To deem in thinking spent." 



The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune's power, 
And to a million of mishaps 

Is casual everj' hour : 
And Death in time doth change 

It to a clod of clay; 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Huns never to decay. 



Our wealth leaves us at death ; 

Our kinsmen at the grave; 
But virtues of the mind unto 

The heavens with us we have. 
"WTierefore, for virtue's sake, 

I can be well content. 
The sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in thinking spent. 

Thomas, Lord Vaux. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



845 



THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. 



f^^lN the deep is the mariner's danger, 

On the deep is the mariner's death; 
Wlio to fear of the tempest a stranger 
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath? 
'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 

Lone looker on despair; 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
The only witness there. 



VVhiose wing is the wing that can cover 
With its shadow the founderiug wreck? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

My eye in the light of the biUow, 
My wing on the wake of the wave, 

I shall take to my breast for a pillow 
The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
I'm the 




'My eye, when the bark is benighted, 
Sees the lamp of the light-house go out ' 



Who watches their course who so mildly 
Careen to the kiss of the breeze? 

Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly 
Are clasped in the arms of the seas? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

Wlio hovers on high o'er the lover. 
And her who has clung to his neck? 



My foot on the iceberg has lighted. 

When hoai-se the wild winds veer about; 
My eye, when the bark is benighted. 
Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. 
I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. 

Lone looker on despair. 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. 
The onljr ^^^tness there. 

John G. C. Bkainard. 



iOR my own private satisfaction, I had rather be master of my own time than 
wear a diadem. 



846 



THE GOLDEN TEEASUHY. 



^HE MARINER'S DREAM. 



IJ^N slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 

^ His hauuiiock swung loose at the sport of the 

V But wateh-worn and weaiy. his cares flew away, 
Aud visions of happiness danced o"er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's meny morn; 

\Vliile memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, 
Aud restored everj^ rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide. 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o"er the thatch, 
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the 
wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; 

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds 
dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; 

Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardships seem o'er; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,^ 

•• O God! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame which now glares on his eye? 
Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on his 
ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the 
sky ! 
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 



He springs from his hammock, — he flies to the deck; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds aud mad waves drive the vessel a wreck; 

The masts flj- in splinters; the shrouds are on fire. 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell; 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
wave ! 

O sailor boj', woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, — 

Thy parents' fond pressui'e, and love's honeyed 
kiss? 

O sailor boy! sailor boy! never again 

Shall home, love or kindred thy wishes repay; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main. 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee. 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless sni-ge; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet 
be. 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge! 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thj^ limbs shall be 
laid,— 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 

And everj' part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away. 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; 

Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey, — 
O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 

William Dimonu. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 



kING out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
King out, wild bells, aud let him die. 

King out the old, ring in the new ; 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 

The year is going, let him go ; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause 
And ancient forms of party strife; 



Ring in the nobler modes of life. 
With sweetei- manners, purer laws. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land. 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennysc=n. 



MISCELLAISHEOUS. 



847 



THE MONEYLESS MAN. 



I^S there no place on the face of the earth, 

Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? 
Where bosoms iii mercy aud kindness will heave, 
When the poor and the wretched shall ask and 
i-eceive? 
Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor, 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
Ah, search the wide world wherever you can. 
There is no open door for the Moneyless Man. 

CrO, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, 
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold. 
And the mirrors of silver take up and renew 
In long lighted vistas the wildering view: 
Go there ! at the banquet, and find if you can, 
A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man. 

Oo, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire. 
Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire. 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within. 
And the walls seem as pure as the soul without sin ; 
Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the gi-eat 
In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate ; 
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can 
Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man ! 



Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; 
Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
Walk up to their counters — ah, there j'ou may stay 
Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs grow gray. 
And you'll find at the Banks not one of the clan 
With money to lend to the Moneyless Man. 

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark flowing gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down; 
Where he frowns on the weak aud smiles on the strong, 
And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong; 
Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid. 
To render a verdict they've already made : 
Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can. 
Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man. 

Then go to your hovel — no raven has fed 

The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; 

Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 

From the lips of the angel youi- poverty lost, 

Then turn in your agonj' upward to God, 

And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod, 

And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span, 

There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man. 

Henry T. Stanton. 



O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE. 



MAY I join the choir invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence; live 
In pulses stirred to generosity'. 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
Of miserable aims that end with sell. 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge men's minds 
To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world. 
Breathing a beauteous order, that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords quenched bj^ meeting harmonies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
That sobbed religiouslj' in .yearning song. 



That watched to ease the burden of the world. 

Laboriously tracing what must be. 

And what may j-et be better,— saw within 

A worthier image for the sanctuary. 

And shaped it forth before the multitude. 

Divinely human, raising worship so 

To higher reverence moi'e mixed with love, — 

That better self shall live till human Time 

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human skj- 

Be gathered like a scroll \\ithin the tomb, 

Unread for ever. 

This is life to come. 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. 

May I reach. 
That purest heaven, — be to other soxds 
The cup of strength in some great agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no crueltj% 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense! 
So shall I join the choir invisible. 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

Marian Evans Lewks Cross (George Eliot). 



848 



THE GOLDEN TKEASURY. 




One of the very best matches ; 

Both are well mated in life : 
She"s got a fool for a husband. 

And he's got a fool for a wife. 



THE MODERX BELLE. 

^HE daughter sits in the parlor, 

And rocks in her easy-chair; 
She is dressed in silks and satins, 

And jewels are in her hair; 
She winks, and giggles, and simpers. 

And simpers, and giggles, and winks; 
And though she talks but little, 

It"s vastlj" more than she thinks. 

Her father goes clad in russet- 
All brown and seedy at that; 

His coat is out at the elbows. 
And he wears a shocking bad hat. 

He is hoarding and saving his dollars, 
So carefully, day by day, 

While she on her whims and fancies 
Is squandering them all away. 

She lies in bed of a morning 

Until the hour of noon. 
Then comes down, snapping and snarling 

Because she"s called too soon. 
Her hair is still in papers. 

Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint — 
Remains of last night's blushes 

Before she attempted to faint. 

Her feet are so verj" little. 

Her hands are so very white, 
Her jewels so very heavj', 

And her head so verj" light ; 
Her color is made of cosmetics — 

'ITiougli this she'll never own; 
Her body is mostly cotton. 

And her heart is whoUj' stone. 

She falls in love with a fellow 
Who swells with a foreign air; 

He marries her for her money, 
She marries him for his hair — 




AUNT TABITIIA. 

?HATE^^E I do and whatever I say. 
^MM^\ Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way, 
?^fC "\Mien she was a girl (forty summers ago), 
t] Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. 

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice — 
But I like my own way. and I find it so nice I 
And besides I forget half the things I am told ; 
But they all will come back to me — when I am old. 

If a j^outh passes by. it may happen no doubt. 
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; 
She would never endure an impertinent stare. 
It is horrid, she says, and I musn't sit there. 

A wal'K in the moonlight has pleasure. I own, 
But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; 
So I take a lad's arm — just for safety, you know — 
But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn't do so. 

How wicked we are, and how good they were then ! 
Thej' kept at arm's length those detestable men ; 
What an era of virtue she lived in I — but stay — 
Were the men such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? 

If the men were so wicked — I'll ask my papa 
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? 
Was he like the rest of them? goodness I who knows? 
And what shall I say. if a ^\Tetch should propose ? 

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin. 

What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! 

And her grand-aunt — it scares me — how shockingly 

sad 
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad I 

A martjT will save us. and nothing else can: 
Let us perish to I'escue some \ATetched young man ! 
Though when to the altar a -victim I go. 
Aunt Tabitha '11 tell me — she never did so. 

Oliver Wexdell Holjies. 



MISCELLA]?JEOUS. 



849 



PROVIDENCE. 



JUST as a mother, with sweet, pious face, 

Yearns toward her little children from her 
seat, 



[ Gives one a kiss, another an embrace, 



To this a look, to that a word dispenses. 
And, whether stern or smiling, loves them still ;- 

So Providence for us, high, infinite. 
Makes our necessities its watchful task. 




Gives one a kiss, anotlier an embrace.' 



Takes this upon her knees, and on her feet : 
And while from actions, look, complaints, pretences. 
She learns their feelings, and their various 
will, 



Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants, 
And even if it denies what seems our right, 

Either denies because 't would have us ask. 
Or seems but to deny, or in denjing grants. 



^^-5X2.^ 




RHYMES OF THE MONTHS. 



JANUARY. 



|EATH stormy skies the wintry blast 

Sweeps o'er the hill and down the vale. 
While children 'roimd the farmer's hearth 
Repeat the meny fireside tale. 



FEBRUARY. 

The forests with their icj' plumes 
Are radiant with the rising sun, 

Or sparkle like an arm6d host 
Before the closing day is done. 



850 



THE GOLDEN TEEASTJRY. 




"The earth is set with many a gem," 
MARCH. APRIL. 

Now falls the sno^^', the sleet, the rain, Now comes the \\'arm and genial rain, 

And raging tempests fill the sky — The green earth charms once more the eye 




"And on the meadow— in the field — 
The polished scythe and sickle gleam." 



A moment — and the sun peers through 
Where clouds with sfoldeii edg'es lie. 



The tender bud, the earlj' flower, 
Look up to greet the mild blue sky. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



851 



All nature springs to life once more, 
The earth is set with manj- a gem; 

And while the stars at eve look down^ 
The modest flower looks up to them. 



JULY. 

The sky grows dark, and chains of fire 
Run through the clouds with dazzling sheen; 

The thirsty earth drinks up the storm, 
The bow of promise now is seen. 




" The north winds howl with dismal wail, 
And earth and sky seem cold and drear." 

JUNE. 

The vine creeps forth, the daisy blooms, 

The very air is filled with song; 
The tall grass bends with graceful curve 

When sweeps the summer breeze along. 



At GUST. 

\ ow man and boast dike repair 

To (ooling '"hade and running stream, 

And on the meadow — in the field — 
The polished scythe and sickle gleam. 

SEPTEMBER. 

The golden giain glows in the sun 
"\\ h()<e 1 a} s aie *( arcely felt at noon : 

The m ud and ^\\ iin at eve enjoy 
The hauf^t and the hunter's moon. 

OCTOBER. 

The maple leaf is touched with age, 
And fades and shi\ ers in the breeze 

Whose mournful whispering now is heard 
Among the naked forest trees. 

NOVEMBER. 

The mountain-tops are clad with snow, 
The hills and vales look bare and gray; 

The moon shines on the gleaming lake, 
And sparkles down the frozen bay. 

DECEMBER. 

The north winds howl with dismal wail, 
And earth and sky seem cold and drear; 

The loud storm swells the grand refrain — 
The anthem of the dying .year. 

Clark Jillson. 



^^p BOOK is a living voice. It is a spirit walking on the face of the earth. It 
i^iy continues to be the living thought of a person separated from us bv space and 
time. Men pass away; monuments crumble into dust — what remains and survives is 
human thousfht. 



852 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 



THE snow, the beautiful snow, 
Filling the sky and the earth below. 
Over the house-tops, over the street. 
Over the heads of the people you meet. 
Dancing. 

Flirting, 

Skimming along. 
Beautiful snow, it can do nothing wrong. 
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 

O the snow, the beautiful snow! 
How the flakes gather and laugh as thej* go ! 
"Whirling about in its maddening fun. 
It plays in its glee with ever}- one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrj'ing by. 
It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye; 
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 

How the wild crowd goes s\\ayiug along. 
Hailing each other with humor and song I 
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — 
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing they go 
Over the crest of the beautiful snow : 
Snow so pure when it falls from the skj-. 
To be trampled in mud b}' the crowd rushing bj-; 
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet 
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. 



Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell : 
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell: 
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : 
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading to die. 
Selling my soul to whoever A\ould buj', 
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful God! have I fallen so low? 
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! 

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow. 
With an eye like its crj'stals, a heart like its glow; 
Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — 
Flattered and sought for the charm of mj^ face. 
Father, 
Mother, 

Sisters all, 
God, and myself I have lost bj^ my fall. 
The veriest wi-etch that goes shivering by 
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; 
For of all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. 

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 
Should fall on a sinner -with nowhere to go ! 
How sti-ange it would be, when the uight comes again, 
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying alone. 
Too "SA-icked for praj^er, too weak for my moan 
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, 
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; 
To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 
"With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow I 

James W. Watson. 



EVERY TEAR. 



^ijpHE spring has less of brightness, 
Wl^ Every year ; 

'^'^^ And the snow a ghastlier whiteness, 
I Every year; 

I ISTor do summer flowers quicken, 
Nor the autumn fruitage thicken. 
As they once did, for they sicken, 
Every year. 

It is growing darker, colder. 

Every j^ear ; 
As the heart and soul grow older, 

Every year ; 



I care not now for dancing. 
Or for ej'es with passion glancing, 
Love is less and less entrancing. 
Every year. 

Of the love and soitows blended, 

Everj' year ; 
Of the charms of friendship ended, 

Every year; 
Of the ties that still might bind me. 
Until time to death resign me 
My infirmities remind me, 

Every year. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



853 



Ah ! how sad to look bef oi-e us, 

Every yeai-; 
While the cloud grows darker o'er us, 

Every year ; 
When we see the blossoms faded, 
That to bloom we might have aided. 
And immortal garlands braided, 

Every j'ear. 

To the past go more dead faces, 

Every year ; 
As the loved leave vacant places, 

Every year ; 
Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. 
In the evening's dusk thej'' greet us. 
And to come to them entreat us, 

Every year. 

" Yoxi are growing old," they tell us, 

"Every j'ear; 
You are more alone," they tell us, 

"Everj'year; 



.3^~ic-^ 



You can win no new affection; 
You have only recollection. 
Deeper sorrow and dejection, 
Every year." 

Yes ! the shores of life are shifting. 

Every year ; 
And we are seaward drifting. 

Every year ; 
Old places, changing, fret us. 
The living more forget us. 
There are fewer to regi'et us. 

Every year. 

But the truer life draws nigher, 

Every year ; 
And its Morning-Star climbs higher 

Everj- j^ear ; 
Earth's hold on us grows slighter. 
And the heavy burden lighter. 
And the dawn immortal brighter. 

Every year. 

Albert Pike. 



THE Wli^GED WORSHIPERS. 

[During the church service, two little birds flew in and perched upon the cornices.] 



SiAY, guiltless pair, 

What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 

Ye have no need of prayer. 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here. 
Where mortals to their Maker bend? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep ; 

Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught laj^s. 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 



-5>--3<r^!§_ 



Then spread each wing 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In j^on blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour. 

Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd. 
On upward wings could I but tly, 

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar. 

On nature's charms to feed. 
And nature's own great God adore. 

Charles Spragve. 




NIGHT AND DEATH. 



YSTEKIOUS night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heai'd thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame. 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus, with th« host of heaven, came. 



And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find. 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? 
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



854 



THE GOLDEX TEEASURY. 




FORTITUDE. 



^^ NOBLE fortiUide in ills delights 
iS^ Heaven, earth, ourselves; 'tis duty, glory, peace. 
yS,^ Affliction is the good man's shining scene; 
i Prosperitj' conceals his brightest ray: 

As night to stars, -woe lustre gives to man. 



Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 

And virtue in calamities, admire. 

The crown of manhood is a winter joy; 

An evergreen, that stands the northern blast, 

And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 

Edward Young. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



855 



OUR MOTHER TONGUE. 

|Ri|0W gather all our Saxon bards — let harps aud Aud lauds for which the southern cross hangs orbit 
(His hearts be strung, fires on high. 

*|* To celebrate the triumphs of our own good It goes with all that prophets told and righteous kiuo-s 
J Saxon tongue ! desu'ed ; ° " 

With all that great apostles taught and 

glorious Greeks admired; 
With Shakespeare's deep aud wondrous 

verse, aud Milton's lofty miud: 
With Alfred's laws aud Xewton's lore, to 

cheer aud bless mankind. 
Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, 

and error flees away. 
As vanishes the mist of night before the 

star of day! 
Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame — 

take heed, nor once disgrace, 
With reci-eaut pen nor si^oiliug sword, 

our noble tongue and race ! 
Go forth, and jointly speed the time, by 

good men jjrayed for long, 
When Christian states, grown just and 

wise, will scorn revenge aud wrong; 
When earth's oppressed and savage tribes 

shall cease to pine or roam. 




" Far as Orkney's breakers roar." 

For stronger far than hosts that march with battle- 
flags unfurled, 

It goes with freedom, thought, and truth to rouse and 
rule the world. 

Stout Albion hears its household lays on every surf- 
worn shore, 

And Scotland hears its echoing far as Orkney's break- 
ers roar; 

It climbs ISTew England's rocky steeps as victor 
mounts a throne; 

Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than 
its 0'\\m ; 

It spreads where winter piles deep snows on bleak 
Canadian plains ; 

And where, on Essequibo's banks, eternal summer 
reigns. 

It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset val- 
leys rolled, 

And soars where California brooks wash down their 

sands of gold. 
■ It kindles realms so far apart that while its praise j^ou 
sing. 

These maj' be clad with autumn's fruits, aud those 
with flowers of spring. 

It quickens lauds whose meteor lights flame in an 
Arctic sky, 




" Lands whose meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky." 

All taught to prize these English words — Faith, 
Freedom, Heaven, and Home. 

J. G. Lyons. 



-< — ^-^^^Z/Z'^^^'ZA^T^-tr- 



ipT is well known that he seldom lives frugally who lives b}^ chance. Hope is always 
*^ liberal, and they that trust her promises make little scruple of reveling to-day 
on the profits of to-morrow. 



856 



THE GOLDEX TEE^^SUHY. 



THE HAEP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. 




;HE harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed. 
Xow hangs as mute on Tara's walls 
As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former daj-s, 

So gloiy's thrill is o"er. 
And hearts that once heat high for praise 
Now feel that pixlse no more ! 



No more to chiefs and ladies hright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas ]^Ioore. 



— a-''^'Z/2^:^2/i-,-t — *— 



THE VAGABONDS. 




E are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's mj' dog: — come here, you scamp! 
Jump for the gentlemen, — mind j-our eye ! 

Over the table,— look out for the lamp I — 
The rogue is growing a little old ; 
Five years we've tramped through wind and 
weather. 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold. 
And ate and drank — and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 

The paw he holds up there 's been frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 

And Roger and I set up for kings! 

Xo, thank ye, sir, — I never drink ; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 
Are n't we, Roger? — see him wink! — 

Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head! 

AVhat a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! 
He understands every word that 's said, — 

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to j^ou, sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 

-Vnd this old coat, with its emptj^ pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. 

He "11 follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There is n't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through everj- disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving. 

To such a miserable, thankless master! 
No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin! 

By George! it makes my old eyes water! 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter! 



We'll have some music, if you're willing. 

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) 
Shall march a little. — Start, j-ou vUlain ! 

Stand sti-aight! "Bout face! Salute your officer! 
Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take youi" rifle ! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your 
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 

To aid a poor old pati-iot soldier! 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes, 

AMien he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, — that's five; lie's mighty knowing! 

The night's before us, fill the glasses! — 
Quick, sir! I'm ill. — my brain is going! 

Some brandy. — thank you, — there ! — it passes I 

Why not reform? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant. 
That my poor stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is thei'e a wa}^ to forget to think? 

At your age. sir, home, fortune, friends. 
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink; 

The same old story; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features. — 

Yon need n't laugh, sir. they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 

I was one of j'our handsome men ! 

If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

A\Tiose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

A\Tien the wine went round, you would n't have 
guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and plajing 

To vou to-night for a glass of grog! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



857 



She's married since, — a parson's wife : 

'T was better for her that we should part,— 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her? Once : I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ' 

You 've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry: 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
I had a mother so proud of nie! 

'T was well she died before — Do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below? 



Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Koger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could. 

No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food. 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I 'm better now; that glass was warming. 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet I 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; — 

The sooner the better for Roger and me ! 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 



lp|ATHER of all ! in every age, 
ifpls In every clime adored, 
X By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
I Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou G-reat Fu'st Cause, least understood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good, 

And that myself am blind : 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 

To see the good from ill : 
And binding natui'e fast in fate. 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or wai'ns me not to do ; 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away; 
For God is paid when man receives : 

To enjoy is to obe}^ 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 

Thy goodness let me bound, 
Or think thee Lord alone of man. 

When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 



And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay; 
If I am wrong, O teach my heart 

To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 

Or impious discontent. 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe. 

To hide the fault I see : 
That mercjr I to others show. 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 

Since quickened by thy breath; 
O lead me, wheresoe'er I go, 

Through this days life or death! 

This day be bread and peace my lot: , 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 

And let thy will be done. 

To thee, whose temple is all space. 

Whose altar earth, sea, skies I 
One chorus let all being raise ! 

All nature's incense rise ! 

Alexander Pope. 



_52--5r--@_- 



K|HE talkative listen to no one, for they are ever speaking. And the first evil that 
*^ attends those who know not to be silent is, that they hear nothing. 



858 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 




THE COLLEGE REGATTA. 



°HE immortal boy. the coming heir of all. 

I Springs from his desk to ■• urge the flying ball," 



Cleaves with his bending oar the glassy waves, 
With sinewy arm the dashing current braves. 
Oliat:r Wendell Holmes. 




Xow to tricir n^,:ites the wild swans row. 



EVENING. 



|HE sun upon the lake is low. 
*^ The ^\ild birds hush their song, 

The hills have evening's deepest glow, 
Yet Leonard tarries Ions. 



Xow all whom varied toil and care 
From home and love divide, 

In the calm sunset may repair 
Each to the loved one's side. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



«50 



The noble dame on turret high, • 

Who waits her gallant knight, 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armor bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade. 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 



Now to their mates the wild swans row, 

By day they swam apart. 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



7^ 5-0^ °- 




CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 



|0T in vain, when feasts are spread, 
To the youngest at the board 
^f^ Call we to incline the head, 
il And pronounce the solemn word. 
Not in vain they clasp and raise 
The pure soft fingers in unconscious praise, 

Taught perchance by pictured wall 
How little ones before the Lord may fall, 

How to His loved caress 
Eeach out the restless arm, and near and nearer 
press. 



5:5 



Children in their joyous ranks. 

As you pace the village street, 
Fill the air with smiles and thanks 
If but once one babe you greet. 
Never weary, never dim, 
From Thrones Seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. 

Babes and angels grudge no praise : — 
But elder souls, to whom His saving ways 

Are open, fearless take 
Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer 
make. 

John Keble. 



860 



THE GOLDEX TREASUEY. 



NORYAL. 



^p!^Y name is Xorval: on the Grampian hills 
,^^0^ My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, 
'■^^^'■o Whose constant cares were to increase his store, 
jj And kee^D his onl}' son, myself, at home. 
For I had heard of hattles, and I longed 
. To follow to the field some warlike lord : 
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
This moon which rose last night, round as my 

shield, 
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light, 
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills. 
Rushed like a torrent down upon the vale, 
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled 
For safety and for succor. I alone. 
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows. 
Hovered about the enemy, and marked 
The road he took, then hastened to my friends, 

^3-^5 



Whom, with a troop of fift\- chosen men, 

I met advancing. The pursuit I led. 

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe. 

We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was drawn 

An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief, 

^Vho wore that daj' the arms which now I wear. 

Returning home in ti-iumjA, I disdained 

The shepherd's slothful life ; and having heard 

That our good king had suuunoued his b«ld peers 

To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 

I left mj- father's house, and took with me 

A chosen servant to conduct my steps. — 

Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. 

Journejing with this intent, I passed these towers. 

And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do 

The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 

JoHx Home. 



MY CREED. 



:S other men have creed, so have I mine : 
I keep the holy faith in God, in man. 
And in the angels ministrant between ; 
I hold to one true church of all true souls. 
AVhose churchly seal is neither bread nor wine, 
Nor laj'ing-on of hands, nor holj' oil, 
But onl}' the anointing of God's grace ; 

I hate all kings and caste and rank of birth, 

For all the sons of man are sons of God ; 

Nor limps a beggar but is nobly born. 

Nor wears a slave a yoke, nor czar a crown. 

That makes him more or less than just a man; 

I love my country and her righteous cause. 

So dare I not keep silent of her sin ; 

And after freedom may her bells ring peace ! 

I love one woman with a holy fire. 
Whom I revere as priestess of my house ; 



S-^c-^^ 



I stand with wondering awe before my babes 

Till they rebuke me to a nobler life ; 

I keep a faithful friendship with a friend 

Whom loyally I serve before myself; 

I lock my lips too close to speak a lie. 

I wash my hands too white to touch a bribe : 

I owe no man a debt I cannot pay. 

Save only of the love men ought to owe; 

Withal, each da.v. before the blessed Heaven, 

I open wide the chambers of my soul 

And pray the Holy Ghost to enter in. 

Thus reads the fair confession of my faith. 
So crossed with contradictions of my life, 
That now may God forgive the written lie ! 
Yet still, by help of Him who helpeth men. 
I face two worlds, and fear not life nor death. 
O Father, lead me by Thy hand I Amen. 

Theodore Tilton. 



O S^YEET \YILD ROSES THAT BUD AND BLOW. 



5^i? SWEET wild roses that bud and blow. 



^^P Along the way that my Love maj- go ; 
/A\ O moss-green rocks that touch her dress, 
* And grass that her dear feet maj* press; 

O maple-tree, whose brooding shade 
For her a summer tent has made; 
O golden-rod and brave sunflower 
That flame before mv maiden's bower; 

O butterfly, on whose light wings 
The golden summer sunshine clings; 



O birds that flit o'er wheat and wall. 
And from cool hollows pipe and call ; 

O falling water, whose distant roar 
Sounds like the waves upon the shore; 
O winds that down the valley sweep. 
And lightnings from the clouds that leap ; 

O skies that bend above the hills. 
O gentle rains and babbling rills. 
O moon and sun that beam and burn — 
Keep safe my Love till I return I 

Richard Watsox Gilder. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



861 



TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 



^^URE, to the mansions of the blest 
^*^ When infant innocence ascends, 
^ Some angel, briglitei' than the rest, 

The spotless spirit's flight attends. 
On wings of ecstasj^ they rise, 

Beyond where worlds material roll, 
Till some fair sister of the skies 
Receives the unpolluted soul. 
That inextinguishable beam, 

"With dust united at our birth. 
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam 
The more it lingers upon earth. 

But when the Lord of mortal breath 
Decrees his bounty to resume, 

And points the silent shaft of death 
Which speeds an infant to the tomb, 

No passion fierce, nor low desire 
Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; 



Back to its God, the living fire 

Reverts, unclouded as it came. 
Fond mourner, be that solace thine! 

Let Hope her healing charm impart, 
And soothe, with melodies divine, 

The anguish of a mother's heart. 

Oh think I the darlings of thy love, 

Divested of this earthly clod, 
Amid unnumbered saints, above, 

Bask in the bosom of their God. 
O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; 

For thee the Lord of life implore; 
And oft from sainted bliss descend 

Thy wounded spirit to restore. 
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; 

Their part and thine inverted see; 
Thou wert their guardian angel here. 

They guardian angels now to thee ! 

John Quincy Adams. 



-a-/i/2/3^5^2y?T, 



THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 



|hERE"S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly i-ound 

trot, — 
To the chui-chyard a pauper is going I wot ; 
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no 
springs ; 

And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings : 
Rattle his bones over the stones : 
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 

O, where are the mourners? Alas ! there are none, — 
lie has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone, — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and 

din,— 
The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels how they spin ! 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges ishurled, — 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 



Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last; 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast : 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, — 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid 

low, 
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
To think that a heai't in humanity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. 
And depart from the light withotit leaving a friend ! 
Bear soft his bones over the stones! 
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet 
owns ! 

Thomas Noel. 



-s^S^a- 



-4"- 



LIGHT. 



l^pHE night has a thousand eyes, 
^m The day but one; 

fYet the light of the bright world dies 
With the dying sun. 



The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When its love is done. 

Francis W. Bourdillon. 



8()2 



THE GOLDEX TREASUHY. 



MAUD MULLER. 



JJiSp AUD MULLER, on a summer's day, 
Eaked the meadow sweet with haj'. 

II Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Hs Of simple beautj- and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing tilled her breast, — 




" Maud MuIIer, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadows, sweet with hay." 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 



And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" TTianks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was uever quaffed.'' 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees. 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier- torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her loug-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud MuUer looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat. 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress mj' mother so grand and gay. 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the huugr}' and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still : 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Xe'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" Xo doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Xor weary lawyers with endless tongues. 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the la^^yers smiled that afternoon, 
'\Mien he hummed in court an old love tune ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



863 



And tbe young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 




ki (/' ' — 



"And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell." 



He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Mullei'"s hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. 
He longed for the wayside well instead. 

And closed his e3''es on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
"Ah, that I were free again! 

"Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children plaj^ed round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 



And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay iu the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spriug-bi-ook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with a timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, "It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for judge. 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 




"And she heard the little sprinar-hrook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall " 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
EoU the stone from its grave away! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



8(34 



THE GOLDEX l-REASURY. 



DEATH THE LEVELER. 



|7§IIE glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is uo armor against fate : 
Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made • 

With the poor crooked sej'the and spade. 

Some men ^-ith swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where thej- kill ; 

But their strong ners-es at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still : 



Early or late, 

They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
"When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow. 

Then boast no more your mightj* deeds; 
Upon death's pm-ple altar now 
See where the victor- victim bleeds : 
Yoiu- heads must come 
To the cold tomb; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

James Shirley. 



ir.se.^ 



CATO'S SOLILOQUY OX IMMORTALITY 



gKT must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well! 

§^ Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desu-e, 
oj This longing after inimortalitj-"? 
X Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
] Of falling into naught? "Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 

'Tis the divinitj' that stirs -within us; 

"Tis heaven itself that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity I — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 

Tlirough what variety of untried being. 

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! 

The \\ide. the unbounded prospect lies before me; 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there 's a power above us, — 

And that there is, all Xature cries aloud 

Thrcfugh all her works. — He must delight in virtue ; 



And that which He delights in must be happy. 

But when? or where? This world was made for 

Cresar. 
I "m wearj- of conjectures, this must end them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword.] 

Thus am I doubly armed. M}" death and life, 
ily bane and antidote, are both befoi-e me. 
This in a moment brings me to my end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
ITie stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age. and Xatiire sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
Unhurt amid the war of elements. 
The ^\reck of matter and the crush of worlds. 

Joseph Addison. 



I'M GROWING OLD. 




SwjpY days pass pleasantly away; 
yil^Ls ^^ly uights are blest with sweetest sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay ; 

I have no cause to mourn or weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy; 

My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
And yet, of late, I often sigh, 
I "m growing old! 

Mj' growing talk of olden times. 
My growing thirst for early news. 

My growing apathy t^ rhymes. 
My growing love of easy shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My growing fear of taking cold. 

All whisper in the plainest voice. 
I 'm growinof old! 



I"m growing fonder of my staff; 

I 'm growing dinnner in the eyes; 
I "m growing fainter in mj- laugh; 

I'm growing deeper in mj- sighs;* 
I'm growing careless of my dress; 

I "ni growing frugal of my gold ; 
I'm growing wise: I'm growing — yes, 
I 'm growing old I 

I see it in my changing taste; 

I see it in my changing hair; 
I see it in my growing waist; 

I see it in my growing heir; 
A thousand signs proclaim the truth. 

As plain as truth was ever told. 
That, even iu my vaunted youth, 
I 'm srrowinar old ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



865 



Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
The tale iu my reluctant ears, 

Aud every boou the hours bequeath 
But makes me debtor to the years! 

E'en flattery's houej'ed words declare 
The secret she would fain withhold, 

And tells me in "How young you are!" 
I 'm growing old ! 



Thauks for the j^ears! — whose rapid flight 
My sombre muse so sadh^ sings; 

Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
That tint the darkness of their wings! 

The light that beams from out the sky, 
Those heavenly mansions to unfold, 

Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 
"I'm growing old ! " 

John Goufrey Saxe. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 




-for the night-cloud had 



bugles sang truce,- 
lowered. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the 
K sky; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
Bj- the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 

'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 



I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, wheu my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore. 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
pa]-t ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. 

"Stajr, stay with us, — rest, thou art weaiy and worn;" 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 



'^^'**^BOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
il Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou? " The vision raised his head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord. 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord.'' 



"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Naj', not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low. 
But cheerily still; and said, " I pray thee, then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-meuc" 
The angel wi^ote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light. 
And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed. 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



-.^s^ssa 



TO MY 

^^HEN barren doubt like a late-coming snow 
Made an unkind December of my spring, 
g^ That all the prettj' flowers did droop for woe. 
And the sweet birds their love no more would 
sing; 

Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith. 
Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart; 
Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe, 
And from thy hope I could not live apai-t. 




MOTHER. 

Now that my mind hath passed from wintrj- 

gloom, 
And on the calmed waters once again 
Ascendant Faith circles with silver plume. 
That casts a charmed shade, not now in pain, 
Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee. 
And mingle prayers for what we both may 

be. 

Arthuk Henry Hallam. 



866 



THE GOLDEJ^ TREASURY. 



,2^%:x. 



THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. 



^I^ETHIXKS the world is oddly made, 
Aad eveiy thing 's amiss, 
A dull presuming Atheist said, • 
As stretched he lay beneath a shade, 
And instanced it in this : 



My better judgment could have hung 

The pumpkin on the tree, 
And left the acorn, lightly strung, 
'Mongst things which on the surface sprung. 

And small and feeble be. 



0^^'^'>X- ^.xx.v^' 




"As stretched he lay beneath a shade.' 



Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 
A pumpkin large and round, 

Is held but by a little string. 

Which upwards cannot make it spring. 
Or bear it from the ground. 

While on this oak an acoru small, 

So disproportioned grows; 
That who with sense surveys this all, 
This universal casual ball, 

Its ill contrivance knows. 



No more the caviller could say 

No further faults descry : 
For as he upwards gazing lay. 
An acorn, loosened from its stay, 

Fell down upon his eye. 

The wounded part with tears ran o'er. 

As punished for the sin; 
Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, 
Thy whimsies would have worked no more, 

Nor skull have kept them in. 

Anne, Countess of Winchelsea. 




|00K on your best friends with the thought that they may one clay become your 
% worst enemies," was an ancient maxim of worldly prudence. It is for us to reverse 

this maxim, and rather say: " Look on your worst enemies with the thought that they 

may one day become your best friends." 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



8(J7 



BUENA VISTA. 



I 



llj^ROM the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a river in 

lipi of Maine, the spring— 

""■^^Let all exult! for we have met the eueuiy again — Our flank is turned, aud on our left their cannon thun- 

Beneath their steru old mountains, we have met dering. 
them in their pride, 

Aiid rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody Now brave artillery! Bold dragoons !— Steady, my 

tide : men, and calm ! 

Where the enemy came surging, like the Mississippi's Through rain, cold, hail, and thunder; now nei-ve 

flood • each gallant arm I 

And the reaper. Death, was busy, with his sickle red What though their shot falls round us here, still thicker 

with blood . than the hail ! 




" Lo ! — their battery is silenced now; our iron hail still showers: 
They falter, halt, retreat !— Hurrah ! the glorious day is ours!" 



Santa Anna boasted loudlj^ that, before two hours We '11 stand against them, as the rock stands Arm 

were past, against the gale. 

His lancers through Saltillo should pursue ns thick Lo! — their battery is silenced now; our iron hail still 

and fast : showers : 

On came his solid regiments, line marching after They falter, halt retreat!— Hurrah! the glorious day 



line; 
Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of 

silver shine ! 
With thousands upon thousands, yea, with more than 

four to one, 
A forest of bright bayonets gleam fiercely in the sun! 

Upon them with your squadrons. May! — Out leaps the 
flaming steel ! 

Before his serried columns how the frightened lancers 
reel ! 

They flee amain. — Now to the left, to stay their tri- 
umph there. 

Or else the da}'^ is sui-ely lost in horror and desi)air: 



IS ours ! 

Now charge again, Santa Anna ! or the day is surelj'' 

lost; 
For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes 

are tossed. 
Still louder roar two batteries — his strong reserve 

moves on; — 
More work is there before you. men, ere the good flght 

is won ; 
Now for your wives and children stand! steady, my 

braves, once more! 
Now for your lives, your honor, fight! as you never 

fouffht before. 



868 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



Ho! Hardiu breasts it bravely! — !MeKee and Bissell 
there 

Stand firm before the storm of ball* that fills the aston- 
ished air. 

The lancers are tipon them, too ! — the foe swarms tea 
to one — 

Hardin is slain — ^IcKee and Claj- the last time see the 
siin ; 

And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate 
fray. 

Grew cold, its last thoughts turning to its loved ones 
far away. 



Still sullenlj- the cannon roared — but died away at last : 

And o"er the dead and dying came the evening shad- 
ows fast, 

And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's 
silver shield, 

And patiently and pitj-ingly looked down upon the 
field;— 

Ajid careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his 
dead. 

Despau-ingly and sullen, in the night, Santa Anna 
fled. 

Albert Pikk. 




"And birds most musical at close of day.' 

EVEX-TIDE. 



PJ^HE stream is calmest when it nears the tide, 
^^^ And flowers are sweetest at the even-tide. 

;,...j. And birds most musical at close of day. 

"^1* And saints di%inest when they pass away. 



Morning is lovely, but a holier charm 
Lies folded close in evening's robe of balm, 
And weary man must ever love her best. 
For morning calls to toil, but night brings rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



869 



She comes from heaven', aud on her wings doth bear 
A hol,y fragrance, like the breath of prayer; 
Footsteps of angels follow in her trace, 
To shut the weary eyes of day in peace. 



Until the evening we must weep and toil, 
Plow life's stern furrows, dig the weedy soil, 
Tread with sad feet our rough and thornj- way, 
And bear the heat and burden of the day. 




"There is a calm, a beauty, and a power, 
That morning- knows not, in the- evening- hour." 



All things are hushed before her, as she throAvs 
O'er earth and sky her mantle of repose; 
There is a oahn, a beauty, and a power, 
That morning knows not, in the evening hour. 



-r-^Ki)-^ 



Oh ! when our sun is setting, may we glide 
Like summer evening, down the golden tide ; 
And leave behind us, as we pass away, 
Sweet, starry twilight round our sleeping clay! 

Mrs. J. M. Win ton. 



MgHE poems which have lingered in the ear of generations have been clear-cut crystals, 
flashing with varied brightness — ideas set in gold of cunning woi'kmanship. 



870 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 



WAITING. 



fEREXE I fold my arms and wait, 
Xor care lor wind, or tide, or sea : 
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays. 
For what avails this eager pace? 

I stand amid the eternal ways. 
And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or da}% 
The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my hark astray. 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone? 
I wait with joy the coming years; 



My heart shall reap where it has sown, 
And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The floweret nodding in the wind 

Is readj' plighted to the bee ; 
And, maiden, why that look unkind? 

For lo ! thy lover seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the skj- ; 

The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs. 



-ffXs"^ 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 



31 HE blessed damozel leaned out 
■'^ From the gold bar of heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the de]ith 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand. 
And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem. 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 
For service neatlj' worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like j'ipe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

It was the ramjDart of God's house 

That she was standing on; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is space begun; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge ; 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly, some of her new friends 

Amid their loving games 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names ; 



And the souls mounting up to God 
Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm; 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
The path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

***** 

" I wish that he were come to me. 

For he will come." she said, 
" Have I not praj^ed in heaven? — on earth. 

Lord. Lord, has he not prayed? 
Are not two pra3^ers a perfect strength? 

And shall I feel afraid? " 

***** 

She gazed and listened, and then said. 

Less sad of speech than mild, — 
"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 

The light thrilled toward her. filled 
AVith angels in strong level flight. 

Her ej^es prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 

Was vague in distant spheres ; 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers. 
And laid her face between her hands. 

And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



871 



BLINDNESS. 



^P^IhEN I consider how my light is spent 
^^ll? Ere half mj' da3's in this dark world and wide; 
^^^ And that one talent which is death to hide, 
^?^ Lodged with me useless, though my soul more 
hent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide; 
"Doth Grod exact day labor, light denied?" 



I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton. 




VERTUE. 

^^WEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
^^ The bridal of the earth and skie; 
^l The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
5 For thou must die. 

Sweet Eose, whose hue, angrie and brave. 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spi'ing, full of sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
My musick sho\^'s ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and vertuous soul. 

Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Hekbeut. 



THE PLAIDIE. 

gPOlSr ane stormy Sunday, 
sg^^ Coming adoon the lane, 
'W'^' Were a score of bonuie lassies — 
J4 And the sweetest, I maintain, 

Was Caddie, 
That I took unneath my plaidie. 
To shield her from the rain. 

She said the daisies blushed 
For the kiss that I had ta'en; 

I wadna hae thought the lassie 
Wad sae of a kiss complain; 
"Now, laddie! 

I winna stay under your plaidie, 
If I gang hame in the rain!" 

But, on an after Sunday, 

When cloud there was not ane, 
This self-same winsome lassie 
(We chanced to meet in the lane) 
Said "Laddie, 
Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? 
Wha kens but it may rain?" 

Charles Siblet. 

THE DAISY. 

^^F all the floures in. the mede, 

Than love I most these floures white and I'ede, 
Soch that men callen daisies in our town; 
To hem I have so great affection, 
As I said erst, whan- comen is the May, 
That in my bedde there daweth me no day 
That I nam up and walking in the mede ; 
To scene this flour ayenst the sunne sprede. 
Whan it up riseth early by the morow. 
That blissful sight softeneth all luy sorow. 
So glad am I whan that I have the presence 
Of it, to done it all reverence ; 
And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe. 
And ever shall, till that mine herte die; 
All swere I not, of this I will not lie. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



872 



m^m,S star that shines dependent upon star 

^ii^^ Is to the sky while we look up in love; 

y(^\ As to the deep fair ships, which though they 

Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them froTn afar; 
As to the sandy deserts fountains are 



THE GOLDEN TEEASURY. 

PLACES OF WORSHIP. 



Of roving tired, or desultory war, — 

Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 

Each linked to each for kindred services; 

Her spires, her steepie-towers \\ith glittering 

vanes. 
Far kenned, her chapels lurking among trees, 




" WTiere a few villagers on hended knees, 
Find solace which abusy world disdains." 



With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals. 
Whose fruit around the sunburnt native falls. 



Where a few villagers, on bended knees 
Find solace which a busy world disdains. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE BEACON-LIGHT. 



lAEKXESS was deepening o'er the seas. 

And still the hulk drove on ; 
N"o sail to answer to the breeze, — 

Her masts and cordage gone : 
Gloomy and drear her course of fear, — 

Each looked but for a grave. — 
When, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

And gayly of the tale they told. 
AMien they were safe on shore; 



How hearts had sunk, and hopes grown cold. 

Amid the billows' roar; 
When not a star had shone from far. 

By its pale beam to save, 
Then, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Then wildlj^ rose the gladdening shout 

Of all that hardy crew ; 
Boldly they put the helm about. 

And through the surf thev flew. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



873 



Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, 
And loud the cheer they gave, ■ 

As, full in sight, the beacon-light 
CaiBe streaming o'er the wave. 



When cheering hopes no more illume, 

And comforts all depart; 
Then from afar shines Bethlehem's star, 

With cheering light to save ; 




"When, full in sig-ht, the beacon-light 



Came streaming o'er the wave 



Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom, 
When sorrow bows the heart. 



And, full in sight, its beacon-light 
Comes streaming o'er the grave. 

Julia Pakdoe. 



-a^5 



GOD'S-AORB. 



ip LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which 

m calls 

y The burial-ground God's- Acre! Itisjust; 
T It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
I And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping 
dust. 

God's- Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have 
sown 
The seed that they had garnered in their 
hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas! no more their 
own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
At the great hai-vest, when the archangel's 
blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and 
grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
With that of flowers which never bloomed on 
earth . 



With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 




This is the field and Acre of our God. 
This is the place where human harvests grow! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



874 



THE GOLDEN TREASURY. 



DANIEL GRAY. 



ipF I shall eA'er win the home in heaven 
^^ For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 
T In the great company of the forgiven 
I I shall be sm-e to find old Daniel Gra}-. 

I knew him well; in truth, few knew him better; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the AV^ord, 
And saw how meekl_y from the ciystal letter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his fi-eight of gratitude, 

Nor was he called upon among the gifted, 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases. 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhj'mes; 

And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
I 've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his motions, 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 

And hear the language of his trite devotions. 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!" 

And how the "conquering and to conquer" rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve him : 
He never kissed his children — so they saj^; 

And finest scenes and fairest liowers would move him 
Less than a horseshoe picked up in tlie way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression. 

And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 



Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind. 

He coidd see naught but vanitj- in beauty. 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him; 

And I am told that when his Charlie died. 
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charlie, 
They found fresh dew-di'ops sprinkled in his hair. 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early. 
And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling. 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling. 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer; 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way 
His mighty friend in Heaven. thS great Redeemer, 

Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit. 
Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 

So. if I ever win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray. 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 



-^s-e^- 



I HOLD STILL." 



l^feAIN'S furnace-heat within me quivers, 
i^T God"s breath upon the flame doth blow, 
'^f^ And all my heart within me shivers 

il And trembles at the fiery glow ; 

And j'et I whisper — "As God will!" 

And in the hottest fire, hold still. 

He comes and lays mj' heart, all heated. 

On the hard anvil, minded so 
Into His own fair shape to beat it. 

■\Vith His own hammer, blow on blow; 
And yet I whisper — " As God will!" 
And at His heaviest blows, hold still. 

He takes my softened heart, and beats it — 
The sparks fly off at every blow: 

He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it. 
And lets it cool, and makes it glow; 



And yet I whisper — "As God will!" 
And in the mighty hand, hold still. 

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow 
Thus only longer lived would be ; 

Its end may come, and will, to-morrow. 
When God has done His work in me. 

So I say, trusting — "As God will!" 

And trusting to the end, hold still. 

He kindles for my prortt purely 
Artliction's glowing, fiery brand. 

And all His heaviest blows are surely 
Inflicted by a Master's hand ; 

So I say, praying, "As God will!'' 

And hope in Him and suffer still. 

From the German. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



875 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



j^T was a smnmer evening; 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
fsAnd he before his cottage dooi' 
Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 

Which he beside the livulet, 
In playing there, had found; 

He came to ask what he had found. 

That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood exijeetant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 

"Who fell iu the great victory. 

"1 tind them in the garden, 
For there's many here about; 

And often, when I go to plough, 
The ploughshare turns tliem out ; 

For many thousand men,"* said he, 
" Were slain iu that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 't was all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes; 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for."' 

'• It was the English," Kaspar cried. 
Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not well make out ; 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

" That 't was a famous victory. 

" My father lived at Blenheim then. 

Yon little stream hard Ijy ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the gronn 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 

Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide. 
And many a childing mother then. 

And new-born baby died; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

"They say it was a shocking sight 

Aftei- the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun; 



But things like that, you know, must be 
After a fanious victory. 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlboro" won, 
And our good Prince Eugene." 

" Why, 't was a very wicked thing! " 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

" Nay —nay— my little girl,"' quoth he, 

" It was a famous victory. 

" And everybody praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win."" 

"But what good came of it at last?" 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 

But 't was a famous victory." 

Robert Southey. 



JENNY KISSED ME. 



|ENNY kissed me when we met. 

Jumping from the chair she sat in. 
Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in. 




'Jenny kissed me when we met, 
J umping from the chair she sat in. 



Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me^ 
Say I'm growing old, but add — 
Jenny kissed me ! 

Leigh Htjnt, 



876 



THE GOLDEX TEEASUEY. 




A HmSTTIFG TTE WILL GO. 

>|HE dusky night rides down the sky. 
And ushers in the morn : 
The hounds all join in glorious cr}-. 
The huntsman winds his horn. 

And a hunting we will go. 

The wife around her hushand throws 

Her arms to make him stay ; 
"My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; 

You cannot hunt to-day."' 

Yet a hunting we will go. 

Away they fly to "scape the rout, 
Their steeds they soundly switch ; 

Some are thrown in. and some thrown out, 
And some thrown in the ditch. 

Yet a hunting we will go. 

Sly Eeynard now like lightning flies. 

And sweeps across the vale ; 
And when the hounds too near he spies. 

He drops his bushy tail. 

Then a hunting we will go 

Fond Echo seems to like the sport. 

And join the jovial cry; 
The woods, the hills, the sound retort. 

And music fills the skj-. 

When a hunting we do go 

At last his sti-ength to faintness worn. 

Poor Eeynard ceases flight ; 
Then hungrj\ homeward we return. 

To feast away the night. 

And a drinkina: we do go. 



Ye jovial hunters, in the morn 

Prepare them for the chase ; 
Else at the sounding of the horn 
And health with sport embrace. 

When a hi^nting we do go. 
Henry Fielding. 

HOWS MY BOY? 

^O. sailor of the seal . 
How"s my boy — mj- boy"? ■' 
/|tX .- What's your boj""s name, good wife, 
K And iu what ship sailed he "? ' " 

"My boy .John — 

He that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor"? 

Mj" boy's my boy to me. 

"You come back from sea, 

And not know mj' John? 

I might as well have asked some landsman, 

Yonder down in the town. 

There"s not an ass iu all the parish 

But he knows my John. 

" How"s my boy — my boy? 
And unless you let me knoM', 
I"ll swear you are no sailor, 
Blue jacket or no. 




" Ho, sailor of the sea! 
How's my boy — my boy? 

Brass buttons or no, sailor. 
Anchor and crown or no ! 
Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton 
" Speak low, woman, speak low! "' 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



-ST 



" And why should I speak low. sailor. 
About my own boy John? 
If I was loud as I am proud 
I'd sing him over the town! 
Why should I speak low, sailor? " 
" That good ship went down." 

"How's mj' boj' — mj' boj'? 
What care I for the ship, sailor? 
I was never aboard her. 
Be she afloat or be she aground, 
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 



Her owners can afford her I 

I say, how's my John?" 

" Every man on board went down. 

Every man aboard her.'' 

"How's my boj^ — my boy? 
What care I for the men, sailor? 
I'm not their mother — 
How's my boy — my boy? 
Tell me of him and no other I 
How's my bo}' — my boy? " 

Sydney Dobell 




"And there, 'mid cliffs by lightnings riven, 
Gathered her hero-band." 



THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM. 



^A^HEN freedom from her home was driven, 
^^§ 'Mid vine-clad vales of Switzerland, 
She sought the glorious Alps of heaven, 
And there, ^mid cliffs by lightnings riven, 
Gathered her hero-band. 



And still outrings her freedom-song. 
Amid the glaciers sparkling there. 



^^s^sss 



At Sabbath bell, as peasants throng 
Their mountain fastnesses along, 
Happy, and free as air. 

The hills were made for freedom ; they 

Break at a breath the tjrant's rod; 
Chains clank in valleys; there the prey 
Writhes 'neath Oppression's heel alway: 
Hills bow to none but God! 

William Goldsmith Brom'n. 



THE anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted 
affection we gave them, foi- the light answers we returned to their jjlaints or their 
pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that lived 



so close to us, and was the divinest thing; God has siven us to know. 



878 



THE GOLDEN TREASUKY. 



A CHRISTMAS HTMX. 



fiT was the calm and silent night I 

Seven hiuidred years and lifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 
>' And now was qneeu of laud and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars, 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, 
Held undisturbed their ancient reign 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night, 

The senator of haught.y Rome, 
Impatient, lu-ged his chariofs flight. 

From lordly revel rolling home; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away. 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago? 

^Vithin that province far away 
AYent plodding home a Aveaiy boor : 

A streak of light befoi-e him lay. 
Fallen through a half-shut stable door 

Across his path. He passed, for naught 
Told what w^as going on within ; 



Ho^\' keen the stars, his only thought — 
The air, how calm, how cold, and thin, 
In the solemn luidnight. 
Centuries ago I 

O strange indifference! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still, but knew not why, 

The world was listening unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the A\orld forever! 
To that still moment none would heed 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago. 

It is the calm and silent night! 

A thousand bells ring out. and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now I 
The night that erst no name had worn — 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven. 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago. 

Alfred Domett. 



LOOK ALOFT. 



^N the tempest of life when the wave and the gale 
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail — 
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution 

depart — 
Look aloft and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow. 
With a smile for each joj' and a tear for each woe, 
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are 

arrayed. 
Look aloft to the friendship which never shall fade. 

Should the visions, which hope si^reads in light to 

thine ej'e. 
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 



Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, 
Look aloft to the sun that is never to set. 

Should those who are dearest, the son of thy 

heart. 
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, 
Look aloft from the darkness and dust of the tomb, 
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. 

And oh ! when death comes, in terror to cast 

His fears on the futui-e. his pall on the past, 

In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy 

heart. 
And a smile in thine eye. look aloft, and depart. 
Jonathan Lawrence, Jr. 



FAITH. 



~4te:. 



'«'«'*i", 



'^ETTER trust all, and be deceived. 

And weep that trust and that deceiving. 



I? Thau doubt one heart, that, if believed, 

Had blessed one's life with true believing 



0, in this mocking world, too fast 
The doubting fiend overtakes our youth! 

Better be cheated to the last. 
Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 

Frances Anne Kemble. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



879 



PROCRASTINATION. 



'Sil^ 



W^-'E wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; 
i^P Next daj' the fatal precedent will plead; 

JiQ Thus ou, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 

'if Procrastination is the thief of time : 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 



And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
If not so frequent, would not this be strange? 
That "tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 

EuwARU Young. 



DEATH OF OLD AGE. 



mF no distemper, of no hlast he died. 
0B But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long; 
'If^ Even wondered at because he dropt no sooner. 
J4 Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore j'ears, 



Yet feeblj' ran he on ten winters more; 
Till, like a clock worn out with eating time, 
The wheels of weary life at last stood still. 

John Dryden. 



32-®S=J- 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

[On the death of Abraham Lincoln.] 

CAPTAIN ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
done ; _ turning ; 

l^" The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we Here Captain! dear father! 

w sought is won; This arm beneath yoiu- head, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all It is some dream, that on the deck 

exulting. You 've fallen cold and dead. 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and ^^ Captain does not answer; his lips are pale and 

still; 



daring : 

But O heart! heart! heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 



My father does not feel mj' arm, he has no pulse nor 

will : 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed 

and done; 



^„^., r^ ^ ■ , • II, ^-1, From fearful trip, the victor ship comes in with obiect 

O Captain! my Captam! rise up and hear the ^' '■ •• 

won: 



bells ; 
Else up — for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle 

trills ; 
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the 

shores a-crowding; 



Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells ; 

But I, ^^■itll mournful tread. 
Walk the deck my Captain lies. 

Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 



-ff~-^^-'^'2/S^^2/2/l/-ti — 9- 



THE MYSTERIES. 



SNCE on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 
^,^^ Holding my breath ; 

''/f^\ There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 
Ji At the dark mystery of Death. 



Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest. 

Spent with the strife, — 
O mother, let me weep ujion thy breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 

William Dean Howells. 



^.] BOOK is good company. It is full of conversation without loquacity. It silently 

^^ serves the soul without recompense — not even for the hire of love. And, yet 

t more noble, it seems to pass from itself and to enter the memory, and to hover 

in a silvery transformation there, until the outward book is but a body, and its soul 

and spirit are flown to you, and possess your memory like a spirit. 



880 



THE GOLDEN TKEASUEY. 



COUNSEL TO A FRIEND. 



'f^MlVE thy thongtits no tongue, 

/^K^ ISTor any improportioned thovight his act; 

^F^ Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar; 

J-l The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried. 
Grapple them to thj'' soul with hooks of steel ; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatch"d, unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, 
Bear "t that the opposer may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ; 
Take each man's censure but reserve thy judgment. 



Costly thy habit as thy puree can buy. 

But not expressed in fancj^; rich, not gaudy, 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 

****** 
Neither a boiTower nor a lender be, 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
This above all — to thine own self be true; 
And it must follow, as the night the daj\ 
Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

William Shakespeare. 




BOOKS. 



CANNOT think the glorious world of mind. 
Embalmed in books, which I can only see 
In patches, though I read my moments blind 
Is to be lost to me. 

I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere, 
So will those dear creations of the brain ; 



That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there 
Take up my joy again. 

O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed 

From all the wants by which the world is driven; 
With liberty and endless time to read 
The libraries of Heaven ! 

EOBEHT LEIGHTON. 



INDEX TO FIKST LINES OF POEMS. 



5C_,^ 



PAGE 

A baby sat on his mother's knee 708 

A barking soniid the shepherd hears .... 674 

Abide with me ! fast falls the eventide . . . 812 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) . . 865 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting . 569 

A chieftain to the Highland bound .... 525 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun . . . 480 

A country life is sweet 285 

A district school not far away 591 

Advancing spring profusely spreads abroad . . 235 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 99 

A rtock of merry singing birds were sporting . 238 

A! Fredoine is a nobill thing 365 

A Frenchman once, — so runs a certain ditty . . 598 

A girl, who has so manj^ wilful ways .... 99 

A harmless fellow, wasting useless days . . . 692 

Ah, gentle shepherd, thine the lot to tend . . 165 

Ah, 1 remember well (and how can I . . . . 98 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting 302 

Ah! not because our soldier died before his field 569 

Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys . . 475 

Ah, there be souls none understand .... 701 

Ah ! well I mind the calendar 451 

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store . . . 589 

Alas ! how light a cause may move 667 

Alas! they had been friends in youth .... 709 

Alas! the weary hours pass slow 415 

A life on the ocean wave 458 

A light is out in Italy 568 

A little bird once met another bird 125 

A little brook half hidden under ti'ees .... 293 

A little dreaming, such as mothers know . . . 732 

A little elbow leans upon your knee 81 

A little word in kindness spoken 675 

All day the stormy wind has blown 699 

All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep 158 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say . . . 416 

Alone I walked the ocean strand 694 

Along the street 363 

A mighty hand from an exhaustless urn . . . 516 

A mist was driving down the British Channel . 557 

Among the beautiful pictures 650 

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er . . 624 

And are ye sure the news is true 79 

And did he rise 807 

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee 804 

And hark ! the nightingale begins its song . . 154 

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 814 

And is the swallow gone 702 

And is this Yarrow ! — this the stream .... 536 

And now, lashed on by destiny severe .... 487 

And on her lover's arm she leant 94 

And there they sat a-popping corn 626 

And what's a life ? — a weary i)ilgrimage . . . 658 

" And where now. Bayard, will thy footsteps tend 578 

A nightingale that alt day long 633 

A noble fortitude in ills delights 854 

An old farm-house with meadows wide . . . 284 

A place in thy memory, dearest 108 

April! April! are you here 271 



PAGE 

Around this lovely valley rise 174 

A ruddj^ drop of manly blood 148 

As at their work two weavers sat 654 

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping . 628 

As it fell upon a day 177 

As men beneath some pang of grief 341 

As now I lay me down to sleep 841 

As other men have creeds, so have T mine . . 860 

As star that shines dependent upon star . . . 872 

As the day's last light is dying 123 

A simple child 744 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers . . 751 

A supei'cilious nabob of the East 593 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay .... 426 

At Bannockburn the English lay 368 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay 382 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars 515 

At last we stood at our mother's knee .... 509 

At midnight in his guarded tent 364 

At Paris it was, at the opera there 134 

At setting day and rising morn 142 

At summei' eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow . 663 

A thing of beaut}' is a joy forever 662 

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns 672 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 380 

Australia's land was swarming 453 

A voice of grief and anger 320 

Away! let naught to love displeasing .... 99 

Ay, build her long and narrow and deep . . . 439 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down 465 

Bachelor's Hall, what a quare-lookin' place it is 607 

Backward, turn backward. O Time, in your flight 106 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe 735 

Banner of England! not for a season. O Banner 395 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall 485 

Before I trust m}' fate to thee 116 

Behold ! a giant am I 468 

Behold a scene, magnificent and new .... 501 

Be kind to thy father, for when thou wast young 73 

Ben Fisher had finished his hard day's work . . 76 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone 707 

Beside the stream the grist-mill stands .... 282 

Better trust all, and be deceived 878 

Between the dark and the daj'light 42 

Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer .... 879 

Beyond the faithest glimmering star .... 814 

Beyond the hills where suns go down .... 820 

Beyond these chilly winds and gloomy skies . . 810 

Bird-like she's up at day-dawn"s blush .... 298 

Bird of the wilderness ISO 

Blessed is the man whose heart and hands . . 789 

Blessings on thee, little man 304 

Born of the prairies and the wave, the blue sea .503 

Break, break, break 648 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead . . . 372 

Bright flag at j'onder tapering mast 675 

Bury the Great Duke 556 

Butlist! a low and moaning sound 519 

But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog 757 

(881) 



882 



IXDEX TO FIEST LINES OF POEMS. 



But see I lookup! — ou Floddeu beut 

But where to tiud that happiest spot below 

But who the melodies of moru cau tell . 

Bj' Xebo"s louelj' inouutain 

By the flreside there are old meu seated 
By the flow of the iulaud river . . . 
By the rude bridge that arched the flood 
By the waj'side, on a mossy stone . . 



Calm is the night, and the citj- is sleeping 
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be . 
Cape of storms, thy spectre fled .... 
Cliildreu are what the mothers are . . . 

'•Child, whither goest thou 

Christmas is liere 

Clear, placid Leman, thy contrasted lake . 
Clear the brown path to meet his coulter's ^ 
Clime of the uuforgotteu brave .... 
Close beside the meeting w aters .... 
Close by the borders of the fringed lake . 
Close his eyes ; his work is done .... 
Cloudy argosies are drifting down into . 
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise . . . 

Come, all ye jollj- shepherds 

Come, cheeril}', men, pile on the rails . . 
Come, cheer up, m}- lads! 'tis to glory we steer 
Come in the evening, or come in the mornin 

Come into the garden, Maud 

Come, let us plant the apple-ti'ee .... 
Come live with me and be mj' love . . . 
Come to me. dearest. I"m lonely without thee 

Come to the sunset tree 

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken dee 
Come ye, come 3'e, to the green, green wood 
Come, while the blossoms of thy years 
Come with the birds in the spring . . . 
Coming through the lye, poor body . . . 
Comrades known in marches manj^ . . . 
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 

Cow ard of heroic size 

Cupid and my Campaspe played .... 



Darkness was deepening o'er the sea . . 
Daj^ dawned; — within a curtained room . 
Daj- follows day ; j-ears i^erish ; still mine eye 

Da}' is dying! Float. O song 

Day set ou Xorham's castled steep . . . 
Days of my j-outh, ye have glided away . 
Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn . 

Dead he laj' among his books 

Dear common flower, that growest beside 
" Dear Maiy," said the poor blind boy . 
Deep in the ^^'ood. th}' voice I list, and love 
"De viortuis nil nisi bonum.'' When . . 
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) 
Dip down upon the northern shore . . . 
Does the road wind up-hill all the way . 
Don't you remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt 
Down in the harbor the ships lie moored . 

Down on the Merriuiac River 

Down the picket-guarded lane .... 
Do you ask what the birds saj'? The sparrow- 
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make "em good 
Drawn from his refuge in some louelv elm 



Each day when the glow of sunset . . 
Earth gets its price for what earth gives 
Earth, let thy softest mantle rest . . . 
Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood 
Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills . 
Earthly arms no more uphold him . . 
Eighty and nine with their captain . . 
Einblem of eternity 



378 
309 
224 
472 
40 
768 
326 
748 

658 
357 
269 

88 
764 

89 
248 
284 
357 
693 
237 
580 
802 
333 
123 
422 
354 
135 
114 
204 
128 
130 
292 

96 
195 
807 
455 
105 
434 
680 
247 
147 

872 
735 
664 
215 
225 
691 
226 
578 
226 
742 
180 
581 
466 
205 
810 
766 
823 
287 
417 
701 
492 
191 

00 
228 
579 
209 
809 
839 
425 
550 



PAGE 

Enough! \\e"re tired, my heart audi .... 715 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind 367 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their 701 

Fair as the dawn of the fairest day 699 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth . . . 547 

Fair stood the wind for France 376 

"Faith! women are riddles! "' I muttered . . 634 

Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes . . 554 

Father of all ! in every age 857 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed . . 113 

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee . . 199 

Five years have passed; five suuuners .... 530 

Fled down the sullen mui'murs of the north . . 296 

Flow gently, sweet Aftou, among thy green braes 144 

For his religion, it was tit , . 599 

For physic and farces 610 

For the"^ strength of the hills we bless thee . . 356 

Forth we went 187 

Free from the cottage corner, see how wild . . 304 

Friend after friend departs 820 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 535 

From the old squire's dwelling, gloomj' . . , 278 

From the Eio Grande's waters to the icj' lakes . 867 

From the weather-worn house on the brow . . 310 

From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood 185 

From 3'ou have I been absent in the spring . . 131 

Full knee-deep lies the w inter snow .... 666 

Furl that banner, for 'tis weaiy 730 

Gate carved in granite, with grilfins at rest . . 523 

Gaj% guiltless pair 8.53 

Giles Scroggins courted Moll)^ Brown .... 624 

Gin a body meet a body 105 

Give th}^ thoughts no tougne 880 

"Give us a song! " the soldiers cried .... 395 

Glimmers gay the leafless thicket 268 

Go, child of sorrow, to the lonely wood . . . 645 

God made the country, and man made the town 278 

God prosper long our noble king 448 

God save our gracious king 317 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 110 

Go where the water glideth gently ever . . . 688 

Good-morrow to thj' sable beak 178 

Good people, all of every sort 628 

"Got any boys"?'' the marshal said 031 

Great God!— our heart-felt thanks to Thee . . 294 

Great truths are dearlj- bought. The common . 780 

Green be the turf above thee 580 

Greenfields of England! whereso'er .... 367 

Green grows the laurel on the bank .... 604 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 145 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove . . . , 257 

Hail Columbia, happy land 316 

Hail, holy light, offspring of Heaven first-born 216 

Hail, Sabbath! daj' of mercy, jjeace and rest . 280 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ' 197 

Harp of Memnou, sweetlj' strung 375 

Half a league, half a league 390 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty 629 

Happy the man whose wish and care .... 307 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings . . 105 

Harp of the Xorth ! that mouldering long . . 364 

Has the old glory passed 659 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star . . 169 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay 590 

Have you heard the story the gossips tell . . . 424 

Have you not heard the poets tell 765 

Ha! where ye gaiin, ye crawlin ferlie .... .599 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands .... 223 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone 693 

He left a load of anthracite 791 



INDEX TO FIEST LIXES OF POEMS. 



883 



PAGE 

He liveth long who livetb well 779 

He touched his harp, unci nations heard, entranced 562 

He was a man whom danger could not daunt . 558 

Hear the sledges with the bells 830 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound . . . 779 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups 45 

Her by her smile, how soon the stranger knows . 127 

Her suffering ended with the day 717 

Here in my snug fire-lit chamber 706 

Here on this beach, a hundred years ago . . . 527 

Here she was wont to go! and here I and here . 141 

Here the furze 200 

Here the stocliings were swung in their red, wliitc; 86 

Here "s a big washing to be done 595 

Here \s the garden she wall^ed across .... 246 

Here "s to them, to them that are gane .... 825 

Ho, ]-eapers of life's harvest 790 

" Ho, sailor of the sea 876 

How can it shine so bright 762 

How dear to my heart are the scenes . . 55 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways . 98 

How happy is he born and taught 783 

How little recks it where men lie . . . . . . 677 

How many times do I love thee, dear .... 105 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 798 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest .... 339 

How snow-drops cold and blue-eyed harebells 221 

How steadfastly she'd worked at it 759 

How sweet and solemn all alone 715 

Hush! my dear, lie still, and slumber .... 87 

Hush! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room . . . 657 

am a Prussian ! see my colors gleaming . . . 318 

am in Rome ! Oft as the morning ray . . . .546 

arise from dreams of thee 112 

bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers . 159 

cannot eat but little meat 620 

cannot paint 167 

cannot think the glorious world of mind . . . 880 

care not, Fortune, what you me deny .... 248 

come from haunts of coot and hern 215 

do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 127 

dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers . 628 

fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 123 

gazed upon the glorious sky 655 

haf von funny leedle poy 618 

have a little kinsman 797 

have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam 476 

have got a new-born sister 77 

have had playmates, I have had compauious . 714 

have just been learning the lesson of life . . 727 

have three kisses in my life 746 

heard the bob- white whistle in the dewy breath 132 

in these flowery meads would be 232 

knew a boy whose infant feet had trod . . . 733 

know not if the dark or bright 819 

know where Krishna tarries in these early daj^s 122 

lately lived in quiet ease 605 

lay me down to sleep 805 

leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover 44 

like that ancient Saxon phrase that calls . . . 873 

11 seek a four-leaved shamrock 212 

love at eventide to walk alone 189 

loved thee long and dearly 732 

love, I love to see 298 

love it — I love it, and who shall dare .... 724 

love the beautiful evening 291 

love to look on a scene like this ■ 465 

'm often asked by plodding souls 825 

"m sittin' on the stile, INIary 722 

'm standing by the \\indow-sill 294 

'm wearin' awa', John 808 

m with you once again, mj^ friends .... 371 



PAGE 

I marked when vernal meads were bright . . . 755 

I mourn no more my vanished j'ears 582 

I picked pink blossoms from my apple-tree . . 655 

I really take it verv kind 619 

I remember, I I'emember 644 

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name . 604 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden .... 116 

I saw eternity the other night 833 

I saw him once before 843 

I saw two clouds at morning 690 

I see it now. the same unchanging spot . . . 477 

I sit by the open \^ indow . . ' 301 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan .... 45 

I slept in an old homestead by the sea .... 678 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he . . . 495 

I stood beside my window one stormy winter day 696 

I think about the dead by day 678 

I think it is over, over 811 

I thought of Chattei'ton, the marvelous boy . . 759 

I 've brought b:ick the paper, lawyer .... 493 

I walk in sadness and alone 696 

I wandered by the brookside 126 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 255 

I was a young fair tree 236 

" 1 was with Grant — " the stranger said . . . 608 

I will not have the mad Clytie 253 

I would not live alway : I ask not to stay . . . 817 

I wrote some lines once on a time 627 

If all the world and love were young .... 128 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven .... 874 

If I were told that I must die to-morrow . . . 812 

If life be as a flame that death doth kill . . . 792 

" I found a Rome of common clay," imperial 488 

If, sitting with this little woi-n-out shoe . . . 730 

If thou wert by my side, my love 109 

If thou would St view fair Melrose aright . . . 547 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly . . 679 

In every village marked with little spire . . . 468 

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade . 221 

In golden youth, when seems the earth .... 741 

In hope a king doth go to war 673 

In part these nightlj"^ terrors to dispel .... 529 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay . . 846 

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls '. . . 731 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise . 759 

In their ragged regimentals 406 

In the tempest of life when the wave and the gale 878 

Is it anybod.y"s business 614 

Is there, for honest poverty 775 

Is there no place on the face of the earth . . . 847 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free . . . 168 

It is an ancient mariner 440 

It is not groM'ing like a tree 843 

It lies around us like a cloud 814 

It lies beside the river, where its marge . . . 518 

It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well . . . 864 

"It snows! " cries the school-boy, "Hurrah! " 266 

It was a summer evening . . " 875 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river side 602 

It was many and many a year ago 744 

It was six men of Indostan 591 

It was the calm and silent night 878 

It's hame, and ifs hame, hame fain \\ad I be . 372 

It "s rare to see the morning breeze 58 

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two. for aye . . 54 

Jenny kissed me when we met 875 

John Anderson, my jo, John 86 

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast . 575 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 594 

John Gilpin was a citizen 585 

Just a little baby lying in my arms 62 

Just as a mother, with sweet, pious face . . . 849 



884 



TXDEX TO FIEST LINES OF POEMS. 



PAGE 

King Francis was a hearty king; and loved . . 520 

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet .... 96 

Kiss uie softly, and speak to me low .... 119 

Knows he that never took a pinch 627 

Know ye the land where the C3'press and mjTtle 545 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 397 

Launch thj- bark, mariner 799 

Lay down the axe, fling bj^ the spade .... 368 

Lead, kind!}- Light, amid the encircling gloom . 816 

Leaves have their time to fall 737 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds . . . 142 

"Let us spread the sails for purple islands" . . 813 

Liberal, not lavish, is kind nature's hand . . . 307 

Life, believe, is not a dream 677 

Life ! I know not what thou art 805 

Life is unutterabl}' dear 688 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world . . 202 

Linger not long! home is not home without thee 107 

Listen, mj' children, and you shall hear . . . 513 

Listen to the water-mill 652 

Lithe and long as the serpent ti'ain 485 

Little one, come to my knee 76 

Little shoes and stockings 720 

Lo ! here the gentle lark, weary of rest . . . 247 

Lonely by Miami's stream 512 

Long years have elapsed since I gazed .... 694 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes .... 143 

Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands . . 126 

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours . . 461 

Love is a sickness, full of woes 128 

Love is enough. Let us not seek for gold . . 108 

Love thy mother, little one 131 

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished . 816 

Low burns the summer afternoon 309 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed hours 217 

Low in a grasss' dingle he was laid 193 

Many a long, long year ago 588 

Many a year is in its grave 739 

Master, to do great work for thee, my hand . . 792 

Matted with yellow grass the fields lie bare . . 182 

Maud MuUer. on a summer's daj^ 862 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie Ill 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning . . 138 

Men of England! who inherit 355 

Men of thought, be up and stirring 771 

Merrily swinging on briar and weed .... 300 

Methinks the world is oddly made 866 

"Mid pleasures and palaces though we maj' roam 70 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire . . . 220 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour . . 357 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 277 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming . 414 

Mother. I cannot mind my wheel 117 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 354 

My boat is on the shore 568 

My days among the dead are passed .... 669 

My days pass pleasantly away 864 

My fairest child. I have no song to give you . . 702 

My heart is chilled, and my pulse is slow . . . 126 

My heart leaps up when I behold 164 

My heart 's in the highlands, my heartis nothere 836 

My life is like a sti-oll upon the beach .... 684 

My life is like the summer rose 646 

My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes . 670 

My loved, my honoured, much respected friend . 33 

My mind to me a kingdom is 786 

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead 719 

My name is Xorval : on the Grampian hills . . 860 

My soul to-day 704 

'My time. O ye Muses, was happily spent . . . 136 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his . .139 

^lysterious night! when our first parent knew . 853 



PAGE 

Nature never did betray 227 

Xay, be not angry, chide her not 752 

'Xeath stormy skies, the wintrj- blast .... 849 

Xight is the time for rest 646 

Xigh to a grave that was newlj- made .... 724 

Xo baby in the house, I know 62 

Xo stir in the air, no stu' in the sea 547 

Xo sun, no moon 619 

Xot a drum was heard, not a funeral note . . 559 

Xot here ! not here ! not where the sparkling . 803 

Xot in vain, when feasts are spread 859 

Xot what chemists say they be 120 

Xot what we would, but what we must . . . 306 

Now all ye flowers make room 574 

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths 70S 

Now gather all our Saxon bards — let harps . . 855 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom . 403 

Now ponder well, you parents deare .... 502 

Now stir the lire and close the shutters fast . . 85 

O blithely shines the bonny sun 486 

O Caledonia! stern and wild 356 

O Captain!- my Captain! our fearful trip is done 879 

O days and hours, your work is this 112 

O Death in Life ! O grave A\'here grim despair . 645 

O don't be sorrowful, darling 131 

O Earth and Heaven are far apart 139 

O faint, delicious spring-time violet 248 

O fairest of the rural maids 106 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness .... 366 

O for a tongue to curse the slave 367 

O gracious breath of sunrise ! divine air . . . 242 

O graudly flowing river 673 

O. greenly and fair in the lands of the sun . . 299 

O hearts that never cease to yeai'n 818 

O Keeper of the Sacred Key 345 

O. lay thy hand in mine, dear 148 

O little feet, that such long years 83 

O majestic Xight 173 

O maker of sweet poets! dear delight .... 262 

O ;Mary, at thy window be 95 

" Mary, go and call the cattle home .... 718 

O master! here I bow before a shrine .... 563 

O maj- 1 join the choir invisible 847 

O my lord, lie not idle 786 

O, my love 's like the steadfast sun 140 

O, my luve's like a red. red rose 112 

O sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased awhile . . 367 

O, sad are they who know not love 117 

O, saw ye bonnie Lesley 142 

O. saw ye the lass wi" the bonnie blue een . . 130 

O, sa}' can you see, by the dawn's early light . 315 

O say. \\hat is that thing called light .... 714 

O sing unto my roundelay 747 

O Spirit of the Summer-time 673 

O still, white face of perfect peace 815 

O stream, descending to the sea 710 

O swallow, swallow, flying, flying south ... 117 

O sweet wild roses that bud and blow .... 860 

O. the days are gone when beauty bright . . . 108 

O the snow, the beautiful snow 852 

O! thou bright and beautiful day 214 

O thou great Friend to all the sons of man . . 804 

'• O whi"ther sail you. Sir John Franklin . . . 564 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year 245 

O young Lochinvar is come out of the West . . 530 

O'er all the land, a vision rare and splendid . . 262 

O'er waves that murmur ever nigh 698 

Of a' the airts the winds can bla\\" 145 

Of all the floures in the mede 871 

Of all the girls that are so smart 606 

Of all the fides since the birth of time .... 459 

Of all the ships upon the blue 616 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 728 



INDEX TO FIRST LIXES OF POEMS. 



885 



PAGE 

Of Nelson and the North 378 

Of no distemper, of no bhist he died 879 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights 865 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 600 

Oft have I walked these woodland paths . . . 245 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 481 

Oft in the stilly night 694 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green 192 

Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time . . . 662 

Oh ! call my brother back to me 762 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 799 

Oh ! give me back that royal dream 124 

Oh, hear the waters murmur as they fall . . . 668 

Oh! listen. Man 804 

Oh, loosen the snood that yon wear, Janette . . 124 

Oh! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom . . . 233 

Oh, the charge at Balaklava 394 

Oh the long and dreary winter 510 

Oh, to be home again, home again, home again . 74 

Oh, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes . 828 

Oh! what 's the matter ? what 's the matter . . 528 

Oh! wherefore come ye forth in trinmph . . 379 

Oh, where will be the birds that sing .... 653 

Oh, while from me, this tender morn depart . . 663 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud . 697 

Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man . . . 613 

Old Ironsides at anchor lay 450 

Old Master Brown brought his ferule down . . 615 

On a hill there grows a flower 129 

On a lone barren isle, where wild roaring billows 508 

On Leven's banks, while free to rove .... 233 

On Linden, when the sun was low 406 

On the deep is the mariner's danger 845 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake 194 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride . 562 

Once at the Angelus 733 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept . . 879 

Once where our city farmers sat 621 

Once upon a midnight dreary 836 

One day as I wandered I heard a complaining . 630 

One day, as I was going by 609 

One more unfortunate 719 

One night came on a hurricane 623 

One sweetly solemn thought 815 

One time my soul was pierced as with a sword . 743 

One year ago, — a ringing voice 736 

Only a baby small 58 

Only waiting till the shadows 805 

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 270 

Our baud is few, but time and tried 327 

Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud . . 865 

Our good steeds snuff the evening air .... 426 

Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John 608 

Out of the bosom of the Air 202 

Over the hills the farm-boy goes 297 

Over the hill to the poor-house, I'm trudgin' . 740 

Over the mountain-wave, see where they come . 320 

Over the river on the hill 713 

Over the river they beckon to me 819 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day . . . . ] 07 

Pain's furnace-heat within me quivers .... 874 

Pause not to dream of the future before us . . 777 

Peace, troubled heart! the way "snot long before 801 

Pity the sorrows of a ])oor old man 726 

Poor little foal of an oppressed race 213 

Poor lone Hannah 763 

Press on ! there's no such word as fail .... 781 

Proud mountain giant, whose majestic face . . 241 

Refresh me with the bright-blue violets . . . 760 

Respected wife : from these few lines .... 587 

"Ritieman, shoot lue a fancy shot 417 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky .... 846 



PAGE 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going .... 742 

Saint Patrick was a gentleman 618 

Sail}' Salter she was a young teacher who taught 614 

Say not the struggle nought availeth .... 780 

Say, ye that know, j'e who have felt and seen . 196 

See the chariot at hand here of love 145 

See, the dapple-grej^ coursers of the morn . . 175 

See yon robin on the spray ........ 207 

Serene I fold my arms and wait 870 

Set in this stormy Northern sea 352 

She is a winsome wee thing 96 

She pulls a rose from her rose-tree 678 

She rose trom her delicious sleep 677 

She walks in beauty, like the night 134 

She was a phantom of delight 117 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 691 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part . 127 

Sing again the song you sung 687 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings . 251 

Slayer of winter, art thou here again .... 257 

Sleep sweetly in your humble grave 766 

Snow-bound for earth, but sunmier-souled . . 581 

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn . . . 574 

So farewell to the good you bear me .... 708 

Softly 745 

Soft on the sunset sky 688 

So here hath been dawning 709 

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew .... 131 

Some die too late, and some too soon .... 575 

Some fairy spirit, with his wand 146 

Some hearts go hungering through the world . 690 

Songster of the russet coat 237 

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky . . 289 

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey . 418 

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest 462 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice ; thou . 263 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air . . 246 

Stand! the ground 's your own, my braves . . 325 

Stand up — erect! Thou hast the form .... 772 

Stars ti'embling o'er us and sunset before us . . 96 

Stern daughter of the voice of God 776 

Still to be neat, still to be drest 128 

Stop, mortal ! Here thy brother lies 567 

Straight to his heart the bullet crushed .... 338 

Strew all their graves with tlo\\ ers 754 

Surely yon heaven, where angels see God's face 808 

Sure, to the mansions of the blest 861 

Sweet and low, sweet and low 125 

Sweet are the joys of home 84 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain . . 638 

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours . 221 

Sweet country life, to such unknown .... 275 

Sweet daj% so cool, so calm, so bi'ight .... 871 

Sweet hand, that held in mine 110 

Sweetheart, good bye ! that flut'ring sail . . . 104 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies 803 

Sweet is the voice that calls 252 

Teach me, my God and King 788 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what you mean . 761 

Tell me not in mournful numbers 778 

Tell me, ye winged winds 809 

That whicli her slender waist confined .... 142 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf .... 479 

The bairnies cuddle dooti at nicht 70 

The l)ird. let loose in eastern skies 808 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings . . . 676 

The blessed damozel leaned out 870 

The blessed morn has come again 237 

The boy stood on the burning deck 483 

The breaking waves dashed high 321 

The bnbljling brook doth leap when I come by . 154 

The cai'rier cannot sing to-day the ballads . . 419 

The castled crags of IJrachenfcls 240 



88() 



IXDEX TO FIRST LIXES OF POEMS. 



old 



The ceaseless hum of men. the diistj' streets 
The cluck strikes seven iu the hall . . . 
The cock hath crowed. I hear the dooi'S . 
The cold winds swept tlie mouutaiu's height 
The coufereuce meeting through at last . 
The cottage was a thatched one. the outside 
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day . . 

The daisies peep from every field 

The daughter sits in the parlor 

The day returns, my bosom burns .... 

The despot's heel is on thy shore 

The dusky night rides down the sky .... 
The faithful helm commands the keel • . . 

The farmer sat in his easy chair 

The floods are raging, and the gales blow high 

The future hides in it 

The gloomy night is gathering fast .... 
The glories of our blood and state .... 

ITie gorse is yellow on the heath 

The gowan glittej-s on the sward 

The groves were God's first temples, ere man 
The harp that once through Tara's halls . . 
The hollow winds begin to blow . . . . 

The inunortal boy, the coming heir of all . . 
The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece . . 
The maid, and thereby hangs a tale .... 
The maid who binds her warrior's sash . . 
The midges dance aboon the bui u ... 
The melancholj' days are come, the saddest . 
The mellow year is hasting to its close . . . 
The merchant tempts me with his gold . . 
The morning came, I reached the classic hall 
The mountains mingle \\itli the river . . . 
The murtied drum's sad roll has beat . . . 
The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime . . 

The night has a thousand eyes 

The night is come, but not too soon .... 
The night was dark, though sometimes a faint 
The noon was shady, and soft airs . . . 

The old nuryor climbed the belfry tower . . 
The old shepherd's dog. like his master, . . 
The One remains, the many change and pass 
The pass is barred ! " Fall back I " cries the guard 
The plains! the shouting drivers at the wheel 
The quality of mercy is not strained . . . 

The racing river leaped and sang 

The rain has ceased, and in my room . . . 
The rose upon my balconj', the morning air 
The salt wind blows upon my cheek . . . 
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 
The shades of night were falling fast . . 
The shadow of the mountain falls athwart 
The skies are low, the \^•inds are slow . . 
The spacious firmament on high .... 
The splendor falls on castle walls .... 
The spring has less of brightness .... 
The spring is here — the delicate-footed May 
The stai's are forth, the moon above the tops 
The stormy March is come at last .... 
The stream is calmest when it nears the tide 
The strongest light casts deepest shade . . 
The summer floats on even wing .... 
The sun has gane doun o'er the lofty Ben Lomond 
The sun of life has crossed the line . . 
The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky Home 

The sun upon the lake is low 

The tawny eagle seats his callow brood . . 

The tender light is fading where 

The voice of a wondrous seer 

The way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud 

The western wind is blowing fair 

The "Wind King from the North came down . 
The wind one morning sprang u]) from sleep 
The world is too much with us; late and soon 



'AGE I'AGE 

303 The year stood at its equinox llS 

SS Then, as a nimble squirrel from the wood . . . ISS 

249 Then give me back that time of pleasures . . . G95 

739 Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere 326 

93 There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin . 727 

721 There in seclusion and remote from men . . . 577 

G37 There is a calm for those who weep 832 

220 There is a flower, a little flower 205 

545 There is a garden in her face 9S 

147 There is a glorious City in the Sea 544 

414 There is a land, of everj- land the pride . . . 315 

876 There is a pleasitre in the pathless woods . . . 161 

698 There is a Reaper whose name is Death . . . 759 

83 There is mist on the mountain and night . . . 838 

504 There is no death! The stars go down . . . . 798 

785 There is no flock, however watched and tended . 752 

355 There is no time like the old time 95 

864 There's a bower of roses bj' Bendemeer's stream 668 

201 There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jollj' round 861 

133 There's a laud far away, 'mid the stars, . . . 803 

151 There's a little low hut by the river's side ... 68 

856 There sat an old man on a rock 603 

254 There's a wedding iu the orchard, dear .... 281 

858 There shall be no more sea; no wild winds 807 

369 There's no dew left on the daisies and clover . . 43 

511 There was an old man who lived in a wood . . 595 

7)6 There was a sound of revehy by night .... 388 

262 There was a time when meadow, grove, . . 795 

717 Thei-e was once a boat on a billow 46 

259 There were three sailors of Bristol City . . . 630 

287 These, as they change. Almighty Father, these . 155 

479 They are dying! tlie\' are dying! where . . 358 

104 They grew in beauty side b\- side 59 

753 " They nutde her a grave, too cold and damp . 734 

353 The}' ran through the streets of the sea])ort town 484 

861 They sat and combed their beautiful hair . . . 736 

783 They told me I was heir. I turned in haste . . 802 

171 They walked beside the Sunmier sea .... 670 

203 I'hej* "ve got a bran new organ. Sue 633 

522 This book is all that's left me now 750 

S29 This figure that thou here seest put 663 

820 This world is all a fleeting show 813 

560 Those evening bells ! those evening bells . . . 650 

508 Those we love truly never die 689 

670 Though many and bright are the stars that appear 347 

136 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray . . . 744 

173 Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea . . . 235 

665 Thou lookest up with meek confiding eye . . . 185 

742 Thou, too, sail on. O Ship of State ..... 351 

817 Three days through sapphire seas we sailed . . 427 
679 Three fishers went sailing out into the west . . 725 

818 Three roses wan as moonlight, and weighed down 756 

119 Three words fall sweetly on my soul " . . . . 695 

821 Thrice at the huts of Foutenoj' the English 404 
649 Thrice happy he who by some shady grove . . 282 
852 Thus all day long the full distended clouds . . 181 
182 Th}' banks were bonnie. Yarrow stream . . . 537 

546 Thy spirit. Independence, let me share .... 360 

209 Tiger, tiger, burning bright 222 

868 Time rolls his ceaseless course The race of yore 700 

763 Time was w hen I was free as air 190 

460 "Tis a fearful night in the winter-time .... 482 

113 'Tis instinct that directs the jealous hare . . . 197 

664 "Tis like stirring living embei-s. m hen. at eighty 407 

73 'Tis midnight's'holy hour and silence now . . 531 

858 "Tis morn; the sea-breeze seems to bring . . . 113 

186 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb . . 218 

800 'Tis sad yet sweet to listen to the south-wind's 734 

566 'Tis sweet to hear 94 

815 'Tis the last rose of summer 662 

120 To bear, to nurse, to rear 4-i 

548 To be, oi- not to be — that is the question . . . 709 

446 To drum-beat and heart-beat 331 

166 To him who in the love of Nature holds . . . 643 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES OF POEMS. 



887 



I'AGK 

To live in hell and heaven to liehold 109 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell . . 272 

To the Co\vpeus, riding proudly, boasting loudly 411 

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime 645 

Tread lightly, she is near 757 

Triumphal arch that till "st the sky "268 

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago .... 824 

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's 256 

'Twas on the shores that round our coast . . . G17 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 82i) 

" 'Twas thirty years ago, and now 748 

Twilight's soft "dews steal o'er the village green OGO 

Two armies covered hill and plain 436 

Two children in two neighboring villages . . . 665 

" Two hands upon the breast 739 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain 81 1 

Under a spreading chesnut-tree 478 

Up from the meadows rich with corn .... 423 

Up from the South at break of day 421 

Upon one stormy Sunday 871 

Up I quit thy bower! laie wears the hour . . . 191 

Up with the sun in the morning 74 

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms . . . 260 

Victor in poesy ! Victor in romance 568 

Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt . . . 782 

Vital spark of heavenlj' flanie 809 

Was ever sorrow like to onr sorrow 726 

Way down upon de Svvanee ribber 70 

We are all here 90 

We are two travelers, Roger and I 856 

We are up and away, ere the sunrise hath kissed 288 

We count tlie broken lyres that rest 752 

We have been friends together 692 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn . . . 1 73 

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep 732 

We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, . . . 788 

We mourn for those whose laurels fade . . . 579 

We mustered at midnight, in darkness . . . 416 

We sail toward evening's lonely star .... 659 

We watched her breathing through the uight . 737 

We were crowded in the cabin ....... 480 

We were not many, we \\'ho stood 414 

"We will go, my love, togettier, to the golden . 758 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking .... 691 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower .... 229 

Wee AVillie Winkle rins through the town . . 48 

Welcome, maids of honor 184 

" Well, this is bad !" we sighing said .... 432 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail 234 

What constitutes a state 372 

Whatever I do and whatever I say 848 

What if either of us should die 129 

What is noble? — to inherit 772 

What is the little one thinking about .... 40 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass .... 679 

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod . , 361 

What song is well sung, not of sorrow .... 667 

What's this vain world to me 801 

What wak'st thou. Spring? Sweet voices . . 166 

When all is done and said 844 

When barren doubt like a late-coming snow . . 865 

When Britain first at heaven's command . . . 317 

When chapman billies leave the street .... 469 

When chill Xovember's surly blast 724 

When daisies pied, and violets blue 209 

When first I saw sweet Peggy 615 

When freedom from her home was driven . . . 877 

When freedom, from her mountain height . . 316 

Wlien he who adores thee has left but the name 355 



PACK 

When I bethink me on that speech, .... 816 

AViien I consider how my light is spent . . . 871 

When I think on the happy days 105 

When last year the mai)le-bud was swelling . . 675 

When love'with uncontined wings 114 

When stars are in the quiet skies 700 

When that my mood is sad. and in the noise . 258 

When the black-lettered list to the gods . . . 140 

When the British warrior queen 352 

When the day and dark are Ijlended 80 

When the grass shall cover me 728 

When the hours of day are numbered .... 758 

When the humid shadows hover 68 

When the mild weather came 267 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's . 747 

When thou, in all thy loveliness 731 

When we two parted 720 

When winter came the land was lean and sere . 239 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays . . . 605 

Where a bright creek into a river's side . . • 521 

Where art thou, loveliest. O Nature, tell . . . 295 

Where did you come from, baby dear .... 77 

Where is the German's Fatheiland 318 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyu . . 558 

Where mountains round a lonely dale .... 290 

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep 483 

Where the stupendous mountains of the moon . 264 

Which I wish to remark 626 

Which shall it be? Which shall it be .... 66 

While moonlight, silvering all the walls . . . 171 

Whither, midst falling dew 184 

WTio are you, dusky woman, so ancient, . . . 431 

Who has not dream'd a world of bliss .... 179 

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere . . 544 

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he . . . . 370 

Why rtyest thou away with fear 621 

Why, lii! young Mas'r John, dat yott .... 831 

Why muse upon the past with sorrow? .... 370 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 131 

Wild bird, that wingest wide the glimmering 120 

Wild was the night, yet a wilder night .... 507 

" Will you walk mto my parlor? " said the spider 592 

With bray of the trumpet 425 

With deep affection 689 

With fingers weary and worn 728 

With little here to do or see 170 

With sweetest milk and sugar, first 162 

With the same letter, heaven and home begin . 801 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorne bush . 192 

Within the sober realms of leafless trees . . . 532 

Without your showers 270 

Winter, thou daughter of the storm 47 

Winter, wilt thou never, never go 219 

Woodman, spare that tree 671 

Ye banks, and braes, and sti-eams around . . . 756 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 741 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again . 834 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 684 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell .... 818 

Ye hasten to the dead : What seek ye there . . 716 

Ye little birds that sit and sing 139 

Ye mariners of England . . ■ 377 

Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory 317 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven . . . 253 

Yc valleys low, where the mild \\hispers use . 243 

'• Yes,'' I answered you last night 842 

Yon bells in the steeple, ring, ring out .... 44 

You, Dinah! Come and set me whar de ribber 631 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon . . . 404 

You lay a wreath on nuu'dered Lincoln's bier • 572 

Young Rory O'Moore courted Kathleen bawn . 606 




s^'iSs 



Portrait of R. H. Stoddard 

Portrait of Francis F. Jiiowno 

The Cotter's Saturday Kiglit 

" Tis wlK'ii a youthful, loving, modest pair, ( 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale" ' 

"They round the ingle form a circle wide" . . 

"The priest-like father reads the sacred page" 

" The parent pair their secret homage pay" 

" The raven's clamorous nest" . , 

A Countiy Home 



33 
34 



35 
36 
37 
38 
39 



" What isthe little one thinking about?" 40 

"I am seven times one to-day" 43 

" I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover" . . 44 

" Let me bleed ! Oh, let me alone" 45 

The Old Oaken Bucket 55 



59 



" One 'mid the forests of tbo West, ) 

By a dark stream is laid" ( 

"Sober little school-girl, with your bag of books" ... 63 

Boy and Lamb 74 

"A little elbow leans upon your knee" 81 

Joys of Home 84 

Christmas Stockings 86 

"Dance and song and lively play " 88 

" The little hand outside her muff— ) 

To keep it warm I had to hold it " ( ^^ 

"While down the river we float on forever" 07 

" There is a garden in her face " 98 



" That flut'ring sail 
Is spread to waft me far from thee ' 

" Rock me to sleep, mother" . . . 



"Thy towers, Bonibay, gleam bright, they say, 
Across the dark blue sea " 



104 
106 
109 



"Sweet hand, that, held in mine" :iO 

" Stone walls do not a prison make, I 

Kor iron bars a cage " t 



115 



The Milking Maid 118 

125 



" Silver sails all out of the west, ) 

Under the silver moon " j 

"Watch o'er his slumbers like the bi-ooding dove" . . ]'27 

"We sat in the hush of summer eves" 129 

" I saw herpace, with quiet gi-ace, the shaded path along" 1.32 



PAGE 

" For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn " ... 136 

"Close by the window young Eileen is spinning " . . . 138 

"Lovethy mother, little one" 1*1 

"Lay on my neck thy tiny hand" 1*3 

" How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills" ... 144 

The Lily-Pond l*f' 

Tail-Piece WS 

" The groves were God's first temples" 151 

" A grove of large extent, hard by a castle huge " . . . 134 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter 135 

"Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm" . . 155 

"By brooks and groves, in liollow whispering gales" . 156 

" Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined" . . 

" With clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled " 

" Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound" . . 

"Since God is ever present, ever felt" 

" How the lit lake shines, a jihosphoric sea" . . . 

" Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime" 

Fawn among Roses 162 

The Shepherd 165 

166 



156 

157 

157 
158 
159 
IGl 



167 

168 
169 



" Sweet voices in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that ha\e long been mute " 

" Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall ) 

Makes inelody" ( ' ' 

" It is a beauteous evening, calm and free" . . . 

" On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! " . . . 

The Barn Owl 171 

Before the Rain 172 

After the Rain • 173 

" I seek the coolest sheltered seat" 174 

" Quickly before me runs the quail " 175 

Mount of the Holy Cross 176 

TheHeath-Cock . . . . 178 

" Upon that heath, in birchen bower ' 179 

The Turtle- Dove 180 

The Rainbow 181 

" In the silent woods " , 1,S3 

The Waterfowl 184 



" From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood 
The merle and the mavis ai'e peeping " 



185 



CSS9) 



890 



ILLUSTKATIONS. 



PAGE 

"The tawny eagle seats liis callo-n- brond " ]S6 

Ram Reflected in the Water ]S7 

The Squirrel-Hunt • . . ISS 

Summer Woods 189 

The Goldfinch ino 

The Squirrel Idl 

The Thrush's Nest 1!12 

The Dying Stag 103 

The Swan 191 

The Pheasant 1!)5 

The Blackhird 105 

Lambs at Play lOfi 

The Hare 197 

The Wild Deer 199 

The Heath-Chats 200 

The Swallow 201 

Snow-flakes 202 

The Dog and the Water-Lily 20.? 

" Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast ( tynt 

Shall liaunt, and sing, and hide her nest " i " ' ' " 

" Shall think of childhood's careless day " 205 

"In every season fresh and fair" 206 

" Though the snow is falling fast, ) <,(,- 

Specking o'er his coat with white" ( 

"And birds sit brooding in the snow" 208 

March 209 

" Poor little foal of an oppressed race " 213 

The First Day of Spring 214 

" I move the sweet forget-me-nots ) <,,_ 

That grow for happy lovers" i " 

" I chatter over stony ways " 21() 

" Still is the toiling hand of care; j o,^ 

The panting herds repose" \ " 

A Winter Morning 218 

" The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves" . 219 

Initial— Wintry Weather 219 

JNIay-Day 220 

The Nightingale 221 

The Tiger 222 

The Eagle 223 

A Summer Morn 224 

"Cheviot's mountains lone" 225 

"As in solitude and shade I wander ) ^o- 

Through the green aisles" j "' 

"Nowis the high-tide of the year " 228 

"I in these flowery medes would be" 232 

" Loiter long days near Shawtord IJrook " 232 

Leven Water 233 

The Rirds 2:54 

The Sheep Pasture 235 

The Aged Oak ■ 236 

Woods in Winter 237 

Solitude of the Sea 238 

"A pillage for the birds" 239 

"The castled crag of Drachenfels ( om 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine '■ \ • • • • -■*" 

The Mountain Oak 241 

"O blissful valley, nestling cool and fair " 242 



I'AGE 

" The squirrel— that quaint sylvan harlequin " .... 243 

" Oft have I walked these woodland paths" 244 

Winter- 245 

"Grizzly" 247 

" The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves" . . . . 249 

"The panting cattle ia the river stand " 250 

"On the bosom of the still lagoon" 251 

September • 252 

Flowers 253 

"The hollow winds begin to blow" 254 

" Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow" 255 

The River Rhine 250 

JIarch 257 

The Shaded AVater 2".S 

"The gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array ■' 259 

" Ships in the calm seem anchored " . . , 260 

" The petrel, in the troubled way, ) ^. 
Swims with her brood, oi- flutters in the spray" 1 " ' 

" Their passage ti-ibes of sea-gulls urge" 21)1 

" Roughening tlieir crests" 263 

Giraffes 204 

The Nile 2(i5 

"It Snows" 206 

Sunrise at Sea 267 

Table Mountain, Cape of Good Hope 269 

"Lovely the moonlight was" 270 

" To climb the trackless mountains all unseen, ) q-o 

With the wild flock that never needs a fold" ( " " "'" 

" Wlien now the cock, the plonghmans horn, ) „— 

Callsfor the lily- wri.sted morn " \ ■ • • ^i^ 

Sheep at Pasture 276 

" Around my ivied porch shall spring ; „_ 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew '■ i ■ • • •'" 

The Homestead 278 

" His head in manhood's prime, ^ „.„ 

Is glowing white as the winter's rime" ^ ''"^ 

Sunday in the Fields 2S0 

Blossoin-Time 281 

" By some shady grove, fui- from the clamorous world " 282 

The Ploughman 284 

" To walk in the ail, how iik'asant and fair" 285 

Counti-y Life 286 

" Down on the JMerrimac River" 28S 

The Cornfield 289 

The Jlowers 290 

When the Cows come Home 291 

" Come to the sunset-tree " 292 

" I sit hereby the stream in full content" 293 

The Old Hou.so 294 

Rural Nature 295 

" For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the dooi- " . 296 

" Homeward, his daily labors done, I „nQ 

The stalwart farmer slowly jilods " s 

Robert of Lincoln .30 1 

" An old log cabin I think of, ( . „„, 

On the banks of the Tennessee" i ^" 

.'•ummer AVoods ,303 

The Village Boy 304 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



891 



PAGE 

The Barefoot Boy ,305 

" The poiiii) of gi-oves, and garniture of fields "... l?07 

" White Dohhin through the stable doors j 308 

Shows his round shape " S 

The House on the Hill 310 

" The cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp " . 311 

Tail-Piece 312 

Death of Abereronibie 375 

Kearney at Seven Pines 418 

Stonewall Jackson's Way 422 

" The bayonet shall be our spit" 432 

"We'll take, content, the roasting ear " 433 

"Brothers of the heart are we" 434 

Loss of the " Atlantic " 439 

" As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean " . . 442 

The Wind in a Frolic 447 

" Dusky sparrows in a crowd " 451 

The Landing of the Primrose 454 

Yellow-Hammer 455 

la the Maine Woods 456 

A Mountain Lake 457 

Denizens of the Forest 457 

Noon in Mid-summer 460 

The Sea in Calm 461 

The Rustic Bridge 466 

" The bald old eagle / ,-, 

On gray Beth-peor's height" ( "* 

The Old Village Choir 476 

The Old Home 477 

The New England School 470 

The Lake at Sunset 480 

" The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ) ,qo 

The windows blocked, and the well-curb gone" i • " 

" The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, ( .j-o 

And his beautiful Morgan brown" j . . . . 4o- 

" They ran through the streets of the sea-port town " . 484 

" O blithely shines the bonny sun / ,„(. 

Upon the Isle of May " \ *™ 

The Burning of Chicago 488 

A Northern Winter 501 

The Shipwrecked Sailors 504 

Columbus and his Crew 506 

Robbing the Nest 509 

The Old Mill 512 

" Up mounts the glorious sun " 519 

" Her sails are drasrgled in the brine ( con 

That gladdened late the skies" ( ''-" 

The Heron 521 

Enoch Arden's Childhood 527 

" Glad if the full-orbed moon salute his eyes" .... 529 

The River Wye 530 

" The swan, on still Saint Mary's lake ( _.-_ 

Float double, swan and shadow" ) "''"^ 

"The sheltered cot, the cultivated fann" .533 

"No more thy glassy brook reflects the day " .... 539 

"Here, as I take miy solitary rounds" 540 

"Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail" . .542 

"Winter wraps the Polar world in snow " 543 

" Know ye the land where the cjTjress and myrtle " . . 545 



PAGE 

Rome 546 

" Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth " 547 

The Inchcape Rock 548 

" That lone hulk stands ) g-g 

Embedded in thy yellow sands" i 

" The West Indies I behold " 550 

" South America expands " 551 

" The immense Pacific smiles " 551 

"Jealous China, dire Japan" 522 

" Either India now is seen" 552 

"Though Arabia charge the breeze" 553 

" Sweep by Holland like the blast" 553 

" Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes" .... 554 

Columbus 558 

Tail-Piece 634 

The Counti-y Churchyard 637 

" The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea " . . . . 638 

"Drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold" 638 

"Children ran to lisp their sire's return" 639 

"Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield" 639 

" How jocund did they drive their team afield" . . . 640 

" Some village Hampden, that witli dauntless breast" . 640 

" Wade through slaughter to a throne " 641 

" Muttering his wayward fancies would he rove " . . . 642 

" Approach and read— for thou can'st read— the lay" . 642 

" I remember, I remember I ^w. 

The house where I was born" i 

" Too late I stayed— forgive the crime " 645 

"Night is the time for toil, / ^„ 

To plough the classic field " i °*'* 

" Night is the time to watch ( o.- 

O'er ocean's dark expanse" i 

"Break, break, break, I ^^^ 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!" i °^ 

" The splendor falls on castle walls " 649 

" Gnarled oaks olden, dark with the mistletoe" . . • .650 

"Free as the winds that blow" 651 

" From the fields the reapers sing " 653 

The Water-Mill 653 

The Two Weavers 654 

"Betrothed lovers walk in sight I „-„ 

Of my lone monument " ( "^ 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School 657 

" Yonder a man at the heavens is staring " 658 

" Over the flowery lawn, maids are at play" 659 

" With treasured tales and legendary lore " 660 

" Themoulderinggateway strews the grass-grown court" 661 

"Play, happy child " 663 

" Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace " 664 

" The nightingale 665 

"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow" 666 

"The wild dove In the thicket calls" 668 

The Library 669 

"That old familiar tree" 671 

" It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore" . . 672 

The River 673 

" The dog had watched about the spot" 674 

"The little bird on tireless wing" 676 



892 



ILLUSTEATIONS. 



PAGE 

" And she turned, her bosom shaken with a sudden 

stoiin of sighs" fiSO 

"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers I u^i 

That crown the wateiy glade" \ 

" The graves of those we loved " 6S7 

" Go where the water glideth gently ever" 688 

" I saw two clouds at morning " 690 

" So here upon the gi-ass I lie at ease " 692 

" The trees under which we had strayed " 694 

" The river all quiet and hright " 695 

" So men must lie down too " 696 

" Tlie lighthouse with its wakeful eye " 698 

'The face of the ocean is dim and pale" 699 

" When stai's are in the quiet skies" 700 

"Do you ask wliat the birds say?" 701 

Swallows 702 

"In lofty lines, mid palms and pines" 704 

"Vesuvius' misty brim" 705 

Alone by the Hearth 706 

" A dreary sea now flows between " 709 

" O stream, descending to the sea " 710 

" Over the river, on the hill, > ^-.o 

Lieth a village white and still " ( 

" Over the river, under the hill, I -, , 

Another village lieth still" ! '^* 

"We read the names unknowTi" 715 

The Churchyard 716 

" Tlie naked woods, and meadows brown and sear " . 717 

" Call the cattle home, across the Sands of Dee ! " . . 718 

" They rowed her in across the rolling foam " .... 718 

" Her grave beside the sea" 718 

"The cottage was a thatched one" 721 

" Wliere we sat side by side" . • 722 

" 'Tis but a step down yonder lane" 723 

" Pity the sorrows of a poor old man" 726 

"A woman sat in unwomanly rags, t -on 

Plying her needle and thread" \ ' 

"Somebody's darhng slumbers here" 731 

"Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile" 735 

" And fed them from mj' baby's dimpled hand" . . . 743 

" Tlie wife who girds her husband's sword, > ..„ 

'Mid little ones who weep or wonder" ( . ... no 

" By the wayside on a mossy stone, ) - ,o 

Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadiy musing" s 

" There's the mill that ground our yellow gi-ain "... 749 

"Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable" . . 750 

" In grief she walks alone, by evei-y garden bed " . . 752 

"Bring flowers of early spring, ) _-, 

To deck each soldier's grave" ( 

" A basket on one tender arm ) -^- 

Contained her precious store " ( 

"A widow, with new grief made wild " 756 

The Blind Man 757 

" I thought of Chatterton, the man-elous boy, ) --q 

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride'' i ' ' 

" Touch me once moi-e, my father " 760 

"Looking on the happy Autumn fields | -„, 

And thinking of the days that are no more " i " ' 

Hannah Binding Shoes 763 

'J'he Little Mourner 764 



PAGE 

The Outcast 76; 

Tail-piece 7riS 

" The moon dotli with delight, ) _„^ 
Look round lier when the heavens are bare " s ■■•••>■> 

"Down in the harbor the shijDs lie moored" b23 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue 824 

The Toper 82() 

"The moon takes up the wondrous tale " S2T 

The Negro Revival 828 

The Old Shepherd's Dog 829 

" Out befo' de cabins all de darkies sat " 831 

The Grave 832 

" On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, I son 

Shall gently molder into thee " S 

The Miser 834 

WiUiam Tell among the Mountains S35 

" Farewell to the mountains, liigli covered with snow " 836 

" Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell" 839 

" Down the glen, beyond the castle, ) p.^ 

Where the Linn's swift waters shine" ( 

" Now I lay me down to sleep " 841 

" Tes, I answered you last night ; I g^,, 

N"o, this morning, sir, I say " i 

"The old three-cornered hat, I o,„ 

And the breeches, and all that" \ 

Old Oak 843 

" The sweetest time of all my life, } y. 

To deem in thinking spent" s 

The Sea-Bird 845 

The Modern Belle 848 

Aunt Tabitha 848 

"Gives one a kiss, another an embrace" 84!) 

The Seasons 849 

" The earth is set with many a gem" 850 

" Polished scythe and sickle gleam " 850 

"Eai'th and sky seem cold and drear" 851 

Fortitude 8.54 

" Far as Orkney's breakers roar " 85') 

" Meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky" 855 

The College Regatta 8.58 

"Now to their mates the wild swans row" 8.58 

Children's Thankfulness 859 

" Maud Muller on a summer's day, ) ggg 

Raked the meadow sweet with hay" i 

" And the young girl mused beside the well" 863 

" The little spring-brook fall, ) gg^ 

Over the roadside, through the wall" S 

The Atheist and the Acorn 866 

Buena Vista 867 

" Birds most musical at close of day ■' 868 

Evening S69 

"Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright" 871 

Village Worshippers S72 

The Beacon-Light 873 

God's-Acre 8i3 

" Jenny kissed me when wc met " ......... 875 

" A-hunting we will go" 8"6 

" How's my boy?" 8"6 

■' Gathered the hero-band" 8" 

Books SSO 



BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



-T^Sg— 5J3 



ADAM, JE.VJ^T. — A Scottish schoolmistress, author of ii vol- 
ume of poems, amoiiij which is the famous one of " The 
Sailor's Wife." Its authorship is erroneously given to 
AVilliana Mickle iii many collections. Born in 1710; died 
in ITGS. 

ADiVJIS, CHARLES FOLLEX. — An American humorist, 
known chiefly from his "Leedle Yawcob Strauss," and 
poems of ji similar character, which have heen published 
in a volume, and enjoyed considerable popularity. Born 
in Mass. in 1S4'2. At one time a journalist of Detroit, INIich. 

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY.— Sixth President of the United 
States, Born in Mass., 1767; died in Washington, 184S. He 
stands eminent among American statesmen as an accom- 
plished scholar, an astute diplomatist, a prolific writer of 
prose and verse, and a man of infl^exible integrity. 

ADDISOX, JOSEPH.— This immortal essayist, who also 
ranks high as a poet, was born in Wiltshire, England, 
May 1st, 167'2, and was the son of the Dean of Litchfield 
Entei-ing Oxford at the age of fifteen, lie early distin- 
^lished himself. At twenty-three lie published a j^oem 
on one of King William's campaigns, which biought him 
favor and a pension, and he then spent two years abroad. 
He wrote largely for "The Tattler" (Steele's project), and 
afterwards for " The Guardian." More famous than either 
was "The Spectator" — in point of time between the 
two — and to this lie was the leading contributor. The 
fame these essays won was and is co-extensive with the 
English language. It was at its height when his "Tragedy 
of Cato" appeared, in 1713. On this his reputation as a 
poet principally rests, though he also w'rote a few exquisite 
hymns and some other sacred pieces. In 1717 he was made 
Secretary of State, but held the ofliee only a short time, 
retiring on a i^ension of £1,.500 jser annum. He died in 
the midst of busy literary labors, June 17, 1719. 

AINSLIE, HEW.— Was born in Scotland in 17H2; removed to 
America in 18-22, and died in Kentuclcj' in 1878. The evening 
of an active business life was spent in literary pursuits. 

ALDRICH, JAMES.— A native of Suffolk county. New York. 
He engaged early in mercantile pursuits, but left them for 
literature, and was engaged as a writer for various jjcriod- 
icals. Born in ISIO ; died in 1856. 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY.— An American author, whose 
■wi-itings, both poetry and prose, are endued with the 
charms of a delicate fancy, playful humor, tender senti- 
ment, and graceful diction. Born in New Hampshire in 
1836, he has led an active literary life since his youth; is 
author of .several volumes, and (since 1880) editor of the 
"Atlantic Monthly." 

ALEXiNA^DEK, CECIL FRANCES —The wife of Wm. Alex- 
ander, Bishop of Deny, Ireland; author of "Moral Songs," 
"Hymns for Children," "Poems on Old Testament Sub- 
jects," etc. Born near Strathbane, Ireland, about 1830. 

ALFORD, HENRY.— Dean of Canterbury, Eng. ; a volumi- 
nous writer on critical and religious subjects, his chief 
work being "The Greek New Testament, with Notes." 
His poems appeared in 1835, and his sacred lyrics in a vol- 
ume of " Psalms and Hymns," which he edited in 1844. 
Born in London, 1810; died in 1871. 

ALISON, RICHARD.— An English poet, of whom little is 
known. In 1.5i)0 he published "A Description of tbe Visible 
Church," and in 10 " An Houre's Recreation in Musicke, 
apt f(n' Instruments ami Voyces." 



ALLEX, ELlZiUJETII AKEKS (FLORENCE PERCY).— Her 
maiden name was Elizabeth Chase ; her first husband was 
the .sculptor Paul Akers. She is widely known as the 
author of the lines, " Rock me to Sleep, Mother." Born in 
Maine, in 1832. 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM.— Began his literary career with a 
volume of poems in IS.'iO; in 18.54 he published "Day and 
Night Songs," and received a literary pension in ISM. Born 
at Ballyshannon, Ireland, in 1828. 

AMES, JIARY CLEJrMER.-A versatile and brilliant writer, 
widely known as the Washington correspondent of the 
New York " Independent." The author of several novels, 
and of the memoirs of the Cary sisters. Was bom in 
Utica, N. Y. 

ANDERSON, ALEXANDER.— Noted as the first engi-aver on 
wood in America. A man of divei-sified talents and at- 
tainments — a i^oet, musician, illustrator, engraver, natur- 
alist, and physician. Born in New York city, 1775; died in 
Jersey City, 1870. 

ANDREW, JOHN A.— Massachusetts' famous "War Gover- 
nor," and a distinguished lawyer and orator as well as 
statesman. Born in Maine in 1818; died at Boston in 1867. 

ARNOLD, EDWIN.— An English scholar and poet, born in 
1832. Was for a time principal of the Government Sanscrit 
College.atPoonoh, India. Afterreturning to England in ISO), 
became editor-in-chief of the London " Telegraph." Pub- 
lished in 1879 the remarkable poem entitled " The Light of 
Asia"; and three years later the " Indian Song of Songs." 

ARNOLD, GEORGE.— Was born in New York in 1834 and died 
in 1865. An edition of his poems was published the year 
after his death. The most widely known, and perhaps 
the best, of his pieces is " The Jolly Old Pedagogue." 

AltNOLD, MATTHEW.— An English poet and critical essay- 
ist, the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, the historian and head 
teacher of Rugby. Was born in 1822, and elected to the 
Chair of Poetry at Oxford in 1857 Is author of several 
books, and one of the foremost magazine writers of the 
day. 

AUSTEN, SARAH.— Was noted for her elegant translations 
from the German. Her daughter. Lady Duff Gordon, in- 
herited her talent, gaining by it a similar distinction. Was 
born in England in 1793; died in 1867. 

AYTON, SIR ROBERT.— A favorite in the Court of James 
VI., and a poet of considerable merit, composing verses of 
refined elegance in Greek, Latin, French, and English. 
Born in Scotland in 1570; died in 1638. 

BACON, FRzVNCIS, LOUD.— The illustrious philosopher and 
statesman, whose fame sheds lustre on the reigns of 
Queen Elizabeth and King James VI. Endowed with 
every advantage of birth, talent, and education, his career 
was crowned with the highest honors, and marked by as 
dire a downfall as is recorded in the history of mankind. 
The "Novum Organum" was his gi-andest work, and his 
volume of miscellaneous "Essays" the most popular. 
Countless editions of the latter have been sold. Born in 
1561 ; died in 1626. 

BAILEY, J. M.— Belongs to the distinctive school of Ameri- 
can humorists; earned a national repute by the witty 
character of his w'ritings in "The Danbury News," and 
from them derived his familiar title of "Danbury News 
Man." 

(S93) 



894 



BIOGEAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



BAILEY, PHILIP JAJIES.— Published at the as;e of twenty- 
three the poein. of "Festus," which secured a swift but 
transient populurity. The several later works of the 
author have failed to secure hiin the fame which his first 
juvenile production promised. Born in England in 1816. 

BiVILLIE, JOANNA.— An English poetess who enjoyed great 
celebrity in her early day, but lived to see her genius 
eclipsed by later writers. Her chief works were her "Plays 
on the Passions." Born in Scotland in 1T6-2 ; died in 1851. 

BANCROFT, GEORGE.— An American scholar and author, 
whose ability as a statesman is forgotten in his renown as 
a historian. He has fulfilled witli gi'eat acceptance the 
duties of Secretary of the Na\'y, Minister Plenipotentiary 
to England, American Minister at tlie Court of Berlin, and 
Minister Plenii^otentiary to the German Empire. His 
chief work is a comprehensive " History of the United 
States," begun in 1834 and still (1883) in progress. Born in 
Mass. in 1800. 

BARBAUXD, i\NNA LETITIA.— An English writer who did 
much to advance the education of children and the posi- 
tion of her sex. To her belongs the distinction of origina- 
ting books exjDressly for young readers. Born in 1743; 
died in 1825. 

BARBOUR, JOHN.— A Scotch poet contemijoraiy with Chau- 
cer. Born about 1320 ; died 1395. 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE.— A Scottish poetess, whose name 
is preserved by the fine ballad of "Auld Robin Gray." 
Born iu 1750; died in 1825. 

BARNES, WILLI AJL— An English clergyman, poet, and 
philologist. Born in 1810. 

BAKNFIELD, RICHARD.— An English author who published 
several poems towards the close of the sixteenth centuiy. 
Born in 1574. 

BARR, MATHIAS.— A Scottish poet, known by the endear- 
ing title of " The Children's Poet Laureate." Was born in 
Edinburgh in 1831. 

BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH.— An Irish poet who contrib- 
uted to the Dublin "Nation." His most famous piece 
" The Place ^Yliere Man Should Die," was first published in 
1843. Born in 1815. 

BATES, CHARLOTTE FISKE.— A teacher in Cambridge, 
Mass., Born in the city of New York. 

BE \TTIE, JAMES.— A well-known Scottish poet and meta- 
physician. "The Minstrel" was his most pojjular work. 
Born in 1735; died in 1803. 

BEDDOES, THOMAS LOATSLL.— A poet and physician, the 
nephew of Maria Edgeworth. In his nineteenth year he 
published "The Bride's Tragedy, which excited general 
admiration as a work of promise. Born in 1803; died 
in 1849. 

BEECHER, HENRY WARD.— A son of the eminent divine, 
Di-. Lyman Beecher, he is in his tux'n the most eminent 
pulpit orator in America. His lectures and semions afford 
admirable examples of spontaneous and inspiring elo- 
quence. Since 1847, Mr. Beecher has been the pastor of 
Plymouth Church, Bi-ooklyn. Born in Connecticut in 1813. 

BEERS, ETHEL L'^'NN.- Was born in New York in 1827, and 
died in 1879. Her widely-known lyric beginning " All Quiet 
Along the Potomac " is among the many popular poems 
of disputed author.*hip. 

BENJAJNIIN, PARK.— An American poet and journalist. 
Born in 1809 ; died in 1864. 

BENNETT, HENRY.— An Irish poet, author of " St. Patrick 
was a Gentleman." Born at Cork about 1785. 

BERKELEY, GEORGE.— A celebrated divine and philoso- 
pher. Only one poem of his \\Titinghas survived, but that 
contains an element of enduring life. Born in Ireland, 
in 1684; died in 17.53. 



BLAIN'^E, JAJIES GILLESPIE.— An American statesman oi 
popular gifts and prominent position in the Republican 
party. Has been a member of both liouses of Congress, 
and Seci'etary of State under President Garfield. Born 
in Pennsylvania in 1830. 

BLAKE, WILLI.iV3I.— An English artist and poet of great 
and unique talents. His works weie of too eccentric a 
character to be easily understood, but since his death the 
genius which created them has received a more just ap- 
preciation. He was born in 1757, and after a life of sad 
struggle with poverty and obscurity died in 1828. 

BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT.— An unlettered shoemaker, who 
performed the wonderful feat of composing a poem of 
some 1,600 lines while at work over the last, and completing 
it before a word was written down. The poem, named "The 
Fanner's Boy," created an immense sensation, 26,000 
copies being sold in three years; and several tran.slations 
appearing. Other works were produced by the author, 
but none of them equalled the first. Born in England in 
1766 ; died in 1823. 

BOIvER, GEORGE HENHY. — A dramatic and Ijnic poet. 
Was American Minister to Constantinople from 1871 to 1877. 
Born in Philadelphia in 1823. 

BOLINGBROKE, LORD.— An English political ^NTiter and 
speaker, contemporaneous with Pope, Swift, and Addison. 
He was brilliant, fascinating, ignoble and profligate. Born 
in 1678 ; died in 1751. 

BONAR, HORATIUS.--A minister of the Free Church of 
Scotland, whose poetical works consist of " Lyric Consola- 
tions" and "Hymns of Faith and Hope." Born at Edin- 
burgh in 1808; died in 1869. 

BON^'EY, CILVRLES C— An eminent lawyer and jurist of 
Chicago, distinguished also by successful advocacy of 
various important reforms in law and government. Born 
in Hamilton, N. Y. in 1831. 

BOURDILLON, FRANCIS W.— While yet an under-graduate 
at Oxford, he won reputation as a poet by two stanzas, 
eight lines in all, entitled " Light." Born in 1852. 

BOAYLES, WILLIAM LISLE. —An English clergjman and 
voluminous writer. His sonnets have been greatly ad- 
mired. Born in 1762; died in 1850. 

BO^THNG, SIR JOHN.— An English statesman and linguist, 
noted for his attainments in the Sclavonic languages. Born 
in 1792; died in 1872. 

BRAINARD, JOHN G. C— An American poet and journal- 
ist. Born in Connecticut in 1796; died in 1828. 

BRETON, NICHOLAS,— An English pastoral poet of the 
Elizabethan era. Born in 1555; died in 1624. 

BRONTE, CHARLOTTE.— The most famous member of a 
singularl}- gifted family. Her first published novel, "Jane 
Eyre," created an immediate and uni\'ersal .sensation by 
its remarkable power. It was followed by "Shirley," 
" Villette," and the posthumous story of " The Professor." 
Born in England in 1816; died in 1855. 

BROOKS, PHILLIPS.— A clergjTnan of the Episcopal Church, 
distinguished by striking oratorical powers. Born in 
Boston in 1835. 

BROWN, WILLIAM GOLDSMITH.— An American editor, 
teacher, and poet. Several of liis shorter pieces — as 
"Mother, Home, and Heaven," and "A Hundred Years to 
Come,"- have enjoyed a wide and lasting popularity. Born 
in Vermont in 1812. 

BROAYNE, CHARLES F.— (Artemus Ward.)— A clever and 
original humorous writer, who won equal favor in England 
and America by the quaint drollery of his lectures and 
sketches. Born in Maine in 1834; died in England in 1867. 



BIOGKAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



895 



BKOVTNE, FR^iNCIS F.— An editor and literary critic. Con- 
ducted the " Lakeside Monthly" magazine (Chicago, 1869 
to 1ST4) , and since ISSO editor of the Chicago " Dial." Born 
in Vermont in 1843. 

BROVVXE, W1LLIA31.— An English author who achieved 
distinction by poems written before he was twenty, but 
fell into silence and obscurity after he was thirty. Born 
in 1590; died in 1C4.5. 

BROVVNELL, HENRY HOWARD.— An American poet, whose 
Ijrincipal book, "Lyrics of a Day," apiieared in 18U4. He 
is best known by his stirring poem on "The Bay Fight," 
and other naval jjieces. Born in Conn. inl8-20; died in 1872. 

BROWNING, ELIZ^iBETH BARRETT.— The greatest female 
poet of England or of modern times. High as is the stand- 
ard of the poetry she produced, had she possessed physi- 
cal powers commensurate with her genius she would 
undoubtedlj' have attained a still loftier rank by the force 
of sustained effort. Many of her poems are among the 
most popular in our language. Slie was married to tlie 
poet Robert Browning, in 1846. Born in 1807; died in 1861. 

BROWNING, ROBERT.— A poet of universal genius, whose 
tame, on account of the obscurities and eccentricities of his 
style, has not been equal to liis deserts. One of his great- 
est works, " Paracelsus," was written when lie was twenty- 
three. His repute is slowly increasing, and the title of 
"the poet of poets " may yet be exchanged for that of the 
poet of cultivated readers. Born in England in 1812. 

BRYaVNT, WILLIAM CULLEN.— One of America's first and 
most honored poets. He began writing poetry at the age 
of ten, and his most celebrated production, "Thanatopsis," 
was wi'itten when he was but eighteen. All liis poems, 
wlietlier early or late, show a rare uniformity of excel- 
lence, and a close and fine observation of nature. Fiom 
1826 until his death, a term of fifty-two years, Mr. Bryant 
held with esteem the position of editor of the New York 
"Evening Post." He was born in Mass. in 1794; died in 
New ITork in 1878. > 

BRY'DGES, SIR SAJIUEL EGERTON.— An English writer 
and bibliographer of eccentric character. His shorter 
poems show imaginative power and some of the high gifts 
of the poet. Born in 1762 ; died in 18,37. 

BL^GAY, GEORGE W.— A newspaper editor and lecturer. 
Born in New Y'ork about 1830. 

BURKE, EDMITXD.— A statesman, orator and writer of com- 
manding influence and talent; a leader among the great 
Englishmen of his time. Born in Dublin in 1728; died 
in 1797. 

BURLEIGH, CECIL, LORD.— The renowned statesman who, 
under Elizabeth, was virtually prime minister of England 
for a i^eriod of forty years. Born in 1520; died in l.TOS. 

BURLEIGH, WILLLVJI HENRY.— An eloquent writer and 
speaker, identified with the auti-slavcry cause and tem- 
perance reform. He was bj' nature a poet and enthusiast. 
Born in Connecticut in 1812; died in 1871. 

BURNS, ROBERT.— "The National Poet of Scotland"; was 
born in 1759, and died in 1790. His simple lyrics sprang 
from a brain fired with the purest flames of genius, and a 
heart throbbing with genuine human feeling. A peasant's 
son, his lite was made up of poverty, hardship and sorrow. 
Its pathos appeals to our charity, and the errors wliich 
shadowed it are forgotten in our love. Wherever the 
poetiy of Burns is read, his name will be spoken with ten- 
derness and enthusiasm. 

BURROUGHS, .JOHN. — An American author, wlio.se writings, 
chiefly on the scenery and life of nature, are exquisite 
prose idyls. He looks upon all things with the eye of a 
poet, and has a lare power of gTaceful expression. Born 
in New York in 1837. 



BUTLER, SAMUEL.— An English humorist, famed as the 
author of " Iludibras," a satire on the Puritans, abounding 
in wit and enjoying a lasting celebrity. Bom in 1612; died 
in 1080. 

BY'ROM, JOHN.— A minor English poet. Born in 1691; died 
in 1703. 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD.— One of the great- 
est of modern English poets To genius of a liigh order 
he joined an attractive jjerson and many engaging quali- 
ties. No poet has been more widely discussed, and none 
has had his private life subjected to a .severer scrutiny. 
But whatever his failings as a man — and these have been 
scandalously exaggerated — his position as a poet is of the 
loftiest. Born in 1788; died in 1824. 

C^VMPBELL, THOMAS.— An eminent Scottish poet. Pub- 
lislied his " Pleasures of Hope " at twenty-one. His lyrics 
are greatly admired, the choicest being familiar as house- 
hold words. Born in 1777; died in 1844. 

CAREY, HENRY'. — An English poet and musician, who com- 
posed a number of songs, dramas, and burlesques. Born 
in 1700; died by his own hand in 1743. 

CARLETON, WILL.— Author of the popular " Farm Ballads"- 
and "Farm Legends." Born in Michigan in 1845. 

CARLYLE, THOMAS.— An English historian and essayist, 
who produced a greater impression on the thought of his 
age than any other writer of the nineteenth eentuiy. His 
intellect was mighty in grasi^, his character was rugged, 
his disposition severely critical, and his writings were a 
mingling of these grand and harsh qualities. His "History 
of The French Revolution " is graphically denominated the 
epic of modern times. Thei-e is a tremendous stimulus in 
his works, and an eloquence that is electrifying. Born in 
Scotland in 1795 ; died in 1881. 

CARY', ALICE. — An American author, whose ^vritings dis- 
play rare poetic sensibility. Her name, with that of her 
sister Phoebe, is peculiarly endeared to American readers. 
Born in Ohio in 1820; died in 1871. 

C^VRY, PHCEBE.— Sister of Alice Cary, and her life-long asso- 
ciate in literaiy work. Born in Ohio in 1824; died in 1871. 

CHiiTTERTON, THOMAS.— An English poet, whose preco- 
cious genius and untimely fate liave gained him gi'eat 
notoriety. Born in 1752, and at the age of seventeen com- 
mitted suicide by jDoison. 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY.— England's first gi-eat poet, called 
distinctively the "Father of English Poetry." Of good 
birth, he was connected with royalty by marriage, and 
held trusted places in the service of Edward III. His 
principal work was " The Canterbury Tales," said to be 
written after he was sixty. Born in 1328; died in 1400. 

CHESTERFIELD, PHILIP, EARL OF.— Best known as the 
author of " Chestei'field's Letters," which were WTitten to 
his son, and never intended for publication. Born in 
1094; died in 1773. 

CIBBER, COLLEY.— A witty English dramatist and actor. 
Poet laureate to George II., yet a single poem only of his 
\\Titing is now remembcied. Born in 1071 ; died in 1757. 

CLARE, JOHN.— The Northamptonshire peasant poet. Born 
inEnglandin 1793; died in 1804. 

CLARK, JAMES (J. — An American poet and musician. Born 
in New York in 1S30. 

CLARKE, WILLIS GAYX* iRD.— \ n American poet of prom- 
inence in ills time, and editor of the old " Knickerbocker 
Magazine." Born in New York in 1810; died in 1841. 

CLEMENS, SAMUEL C. (M.*.RK Tw.\IN). — An American 
humorist of quaint and original talent. His books have 
had an cxtraordinaiy sale. Born in Missouri in ISS.^. 



89(5 



BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH.— An English poet, a favorite 
pupil of Dr. Thomas Arnold; for a time a resident of Cam- 
bridge, Mass. His later career scarcely fulfilled his youth- 
ful promise. BorninlS19; died in 1S61. 

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY.— Eldest son of the poet S. T. Cole- 
ridge, and the inheritor of much of his father's extraor- 
dinary talent. Born in England in 1796; died in 1S49. 

COLERIDGE, .'^AMUEL TAYLOR.— One of the towering 
names in modern English literature. Coleridge was en- 
dowed with magniliceutgenius, hut its achievements were 
sadly limited by a feeble energy and impotent will. His 
poems, fragmentary at best, are creations of marvelous 
l^ower. His fame as a conversationalist has never been 
surpassed. Born in 1772; died in 1834. 

COLFAX, SCHUYLER.— Seventeenth Vice-President of the 
United States, greatly esteemed in public and private life. 
Born in Xew York in ISii. 

COLLINS, MORTLJIER.— Author of several novels and vol- 
umes of poetry, and a frequent contributor to "Punch" 
and otlier periodicals. Born in England in 1827; died 
in 1S7(). 

COLLINS, WILLIAM.— An English lyric poet of rare endow- 
ments. His brief and sad life ended in insanity. Born in 
1720 ; died in 1756. 

COLLYER, ROBERT.— A native of England, of humblebirth 
and scanty education. He came to this country at the age 
of 27, and worked at his trade of blacksmithing. Soon 
after lie forsook the anvil for the pulpit, and has become 
one of the most popular preachers in the United States 
His literary style is a model of Saxon simplicity. Pastor 
of a Unitarian church in New York city. Born in 1823. 

C0LJ1AN-, GEORGE.— Styled "The Younger." An English 
humorist and dramatist. Several of his plays are still 
popular on the stage. Born in 1762 ; died in 1836. 

CONST .VBLE, HENRY'.— An English poet; born about 1560; 
died in 1600. 

COOK, ELIZA.— A favorite English poetess. Received a lit- 
erary pension in 1864. Born in 1817. 

COOKE, JOHN ESTEN.— Brotlierot Philip Pendleton Cooke, 
and, like him, a prolific and pleasant writer. Born in 
Virginia in 1830. 

COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON.— An accomplished man of 
letters. Born in Virginia in 1816; died in 1850. 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY.— Author of many poems and short 
prose sketches. Born in Conn, in 1827. 

COOLBRITH, INA D.— A California poet, whose verses first 

attracted attention in the "Overland Monthly." A volume 

of her poems has appeared in print. 
CORBETT, MISSES— Natives of England, the authors of a 

number of juvenile books which have met with high 

success. 

CORWIN, THOMAS —An American lawTer and statesman, 
and one of the mo.st popular orators of his time. He was 
Governor of Ohio, U. S. Senator from the same State, 
and Minister to Mexico. Born in Kentucky in 1794; died 
in 1S65. 

COWPER, WILLLVM.—" The most popular poet of his gen- 
eration," whose writings modified the tone of English 
poetiy, infecting it with a more earnest and simple spirit. 
His greatest work was " The Task," but the best known at 
the present day is the ballad of "John Gilpin." Born in 
1731 ; died in 1800. 

CRABBE, GEORGE.— An English poet and divine, who de- 
picted tlie life of the poor and lowly in verse of simple 
graphic power. Born in 1754; died in 1832. 



CRAIK, DINAH MARIA (MiSS MULOCK).— .\ji English nov- 
elist, whose voluminous writings are deservedly popular 
for their healthy moral tone and truthful i^ietures of 
everj'-day life. The best-known of her books is "John 
Halifax, Gentleman," one of the standard works of Eng- 
lish fiction. Born in 1826. 

CRAWFORD, JULIA.— An Irish lady, a contributor to the 
London "New Monthly." 

CROSS, MARIAN EVANS LE'V^'^ES (GEORGE Eliot).— An 
English novelist and poetess, standing in the first rank 
of the authors of fiction in her own or any other lan- 
guage. Her wi'itings were invariably characterized by 
powerful origmalitj', wide learning, masterly insight and 
invention, and vigorous and sinewy diction. They pro- 
cured her fame and wealth, and the world's esteem. 
Born in 1820; died in 18S1. 

CUNNINGKLUl, i\X,LAN.— A Scotch poet, novelist, and mis- 
cellaneous writer. His most esteemed works were bio- 
graphical. Born in 1784; died in 1842. 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLLUI —Best known as the editor of 
"Harper's Weekly," and a champion of civil service re- 
form. The author of a number of charming books of 
fiction and travel. His writings are marked by exquisite 
finish, keen penetration, and sound judgment. Also one 
of the most brilliant orators of his time. Born in Rhode 
Island in 1824. 

CUSHING, CALEB.— An American scholar and jurist of dis- 
tinguished and varied talents. Occupied a prominent 
position in public affairs, and produced many literary and 
political works. Born in Mass. in 1800; died in 1879. 

CUTTER, GEORGE W.— The author of a volume of poems 
published in 1857. Born in Kentucky in 1814; died in 1865. 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY.— An American author who ac- 
quired repute in the first half of this century. Born in 
Mass. in 17;^7; died in 1878. 

DANIEL, SAMUEL.— An English poet andhistorian. Born in 
1562; died in 1619. 

DARWIN, ERASJIUS.— An ingenious English physiologist 
and poet; author of "The Botanic Garden," and also of 
several prose works evincing much metaphysical talent. 
Grandfather of Charles Darwin, the eminent naturalist. 
Born in 1731 ; died in 1802. 

DA\^S, THOMAS OSBORNE.— An Irish poet and patriot. 
Born in 1814; died in 1845. 

DEQUaNCEY', THOlNLiS.- An English author of wonderful 
Ijowers, but trammeled in their use by the habits of an 
opium-eater. He had a masterly command of language, 
and as an essayist and conversationalist was equally daz- 
zling. Boru in 1785; died in 1859. 

DeVERE, sir ALTiREY- An Irish poet and dramatist. 
Born in 1788; died in 1846. 

DICKENS, CHARLES.— One of the first of the great English 
novelists of the present century. But one or two authors 
can rival him in the department of fiction, and none equal 
him in the enthusiasm of his readers. He is cherished by 
a host of admirers with a feeling of personal love and 
gratitude, such was the tenderness of his nature and the 
charm of his transcendent talent. Born in 1812; died 
in 1870. 

DIMOND, AVILLIAM. — An English theatrical manager, 
dramatist and poet; lie is now known by his "Mariner's 
Dream." Born about 1780; died about 1814. 

DO^YXE, GEORGE W.— Bishop of New Jersey. A poet and 
scholar of refined and cultivated taste. Born in New 
Jersey in i"99; died in 1859. 

DOBELL, SYDNEY'.— An Enghsh poet. Born in 1824; died 
in 1874. 



BIOGEAPHIES OF AUTHOES. 



8<J7 



DOBSOiST, AUSTIN.— One of the foremost of tlie younger 
English poets of the day, and an accomplished man of 
letters. Born in 1840. 

DODDRIDGE, PHtLIP.— A celebrated English hymnist, and 
author of religious works. His hymns are in use in most 
Protestant churches. Born in 1702 ; died in 1751. 

DODGE, i\L\_RY E.— The accompHshed editor of "Harper's 
Bazar." 

DODGE, MARY jMj\PES.— Widely known as the editor of 
"St. Nicholas," and a writer of juvenile literature. Born 
in 1838. 

DODSLEY, ROBERT.— An English author and publisher 
of note. He was the first to give emplojTnent to Samuel 
Johnson. Born in 1703; died in 1764. 

DOMETT, ALFRED.— Contributed a number of lyrics to 
"Blackwood's Magazine," among them his celebrated 
"Christmas Hymn." Born in England about 1815. 

DOUDNEY, SARAH. (Afterwards Mrs. Clark.1— An Ameri- 
can, wliose title to the authorship of the beautiful and 
popular poem of " The 'Water-Mill," claimed by several 
authors, is not now to be disputed. 

DOUGLAS OK FINGLAND.— The author of the original song 
of " Annie Laurie," which is in two stanzas, and was 
written prior to 1688. The lady who inspired the poem 
married a Mr. Ferguson. 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN.— An American poet of preco- 
cious genius, remembered chiefly as the author of " The 
Culprit Fay" and the stirring poem of "The American 
Flag." Born in New York in 1795 ; died in lh20. 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL.— An English poet, whose name is 
preserved mainly by his spirited ballad of "Agincourt." 
Born in 1563 ; died in 1631. 

DRUJIMOND, WlLLIiVJI.— An early Scotch poet, the first to 
write in pure English dialect. Of high repute in his day. 
Born in 1585 ; died in 1649. 

DRYDES, JOHN.— An English poet and dramatist, whose 
writings mark an ei)och in the progress of the literatm-e 
of his country. He excelled in prose as well as poetrJ^ 
Was poet laureate. Born in 1631 ; died in 1700. 

DUFFERIN, LADY.— A grand- daughter of Richard Brins- 
ley Sheridan, sister of Mrs. Norton, and mother of the 
Earl of Dufferin, late Governor-General of Canada Her 
literary reputation was made by "The Lament of the 
Irish Emigrant." Born in 1807 ; died in 1867. 

DUFFY, SIR CHARLES GAVAN.— An Irish poet and jour- 
nalist. Emigrating to Australia, he became Prime Minis- 
ter of the colony in 1871. Born in 1816. 

DUGANNK, AUGUSTINE J. H.-An American poet and 
novelist. Boi-n in Mass. in 1823. 

DURIYAGE, FRANCIS A.— An American poet and magazin- 
ist. Born in Mass. in 1814. 

DWIGHT, TIMOTHY.— A prominent theologian, and for 
many years President of Yale College. One of the earliest 
of American poets. Born in Mass. in 17.52 ; died in 1817. 

DYER, JOHN.— A Welsh poet. Bom in 1700 ; died in 1758. 

DYER, SIR EDWARD.— A writer of the Elizabethan age. 
Was employed by the Queen in several foreign embassies. 
Born in 1.540; died in 1607. 

EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE.— A journalist and poet. 
Born in Maine in 1816 ; died in Vermont in 1861. 

ELLIOT, EBENEZER.-The English " Corn-Law Rhj-mer." 
Born of the people, he espoused their cause, and with fer- 
vid zeal plead in his verses for the relief of their oppres- 
sions. Br)rn in 1781 ; died in 1849. 



EMERSON, RALPH WALDO.— An eminent American essay- 
ist, i)oet, and idealist; distinguished for originality and 
subtlety of thought, for exalted concei^tions of conduct, 
and for a life consistent with his highest teachings. Amer- 
ica has produced no writer or scholar of greater influence 
and renown. His works have had a profound effect in 
molding earnest minds. Born in Mass. in 1803; died 
in 1882. 

EMJIET, ROBERT.— An Irish patriot and revolutionist, 
whose career excited a romantic interest. Was born in 
1780, and executed for treason in 1803. 

ENGLISH, THOJLVS DUNN.— A physician and poet. Born 
in Pennsylvania in 1819. 

EVERETT, EDW^VRD.— An American scholar, statesman, 
and orator, especially famed for eloquence of the most 
finished character. He filled with credit various impor- 
tant public positions. Born in Mass. in 1794; died in 1865. 

FALCONER, WILLIAJL— A Scotchman of humble birth, 
winning fame by a single remarkable poem, " The Ship- 
wreck." Born in 1732 ; died in 1769. 

FAWCETT, EDGAR.— An American poet, novelist, and 
dramatist. Born in New Y'ork in 1847. 

FIELDING, HENRY.— Entitled the " Father of the English 
Novel." His first fiction was intended as a satire on Rich- 
ardson's " Pamela," and had a pi-odigious success. His 
best novel was "Tom Jones." Born in 1707; died in 1754. 

FIELDS, JAjMES THOMAS.— An American publisher and 
author, whose character and wi'itings were equally genial 
and chai-ming. Born In New Hampshire in 1817 ; died 
in 1881. 

FINCH, FRANCIS MILES.— A lawj'er and judge. Bom in 
Ithaca, N. Y., in 1827. His poetic fame rests chiefly on the 
fine lyrics of " The Blue and the Gray" — published first in 
the " Atlantic Monthly," and suggested by the women of 
Columbus, Miss., decorating alike the gi'aves of Union and 
Confederate dead — and "Nathan Hale," read at Yale Col- 
lege in 18.53. Hale was a captain in the Continental army, 
who was found by the British within their lines at New 
York, and, by order of Lord Howe, was executed the next 
morning, Sept. 22, 1776. 

FINLEY, JOHN.— Born in Virginia in 1797; died in 1866. 

FLAGG, WILSON.— An ornithologist, and the author of sev- 
eral volume of delightful sketches of nature. A native of 
Massachusetts. 

FLETCHER, GILES.— Born in Kent, England, about 1550; 
died in 1610. 

FORRESTER, ALFRED A. (ALFRED CROWQUILL).— An Eng- 
lish artist and humorous writer; the first illustrator of 
" Punch" and the " Illustrated News," and the author of a 
number of books combining humorous sketches with pen 
and pencil. Boim in 1805. 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS.— A musician and poet, whose 
negro songs, original in words and melody, have had a 
wonderful popularity. Boi'n in Pennsylvania in 1826; died 
in 1864. 

RANIvLIN, BEX.IA]MrN. — An American sage, statesman, 
and scientist, who is to be named among the great men of 
the world. A signer of the Declaration of Independence, 
and one of the framers of the Constitution of the U. S. 
His writings, on a wide range of subjects, fill ten octavo 
volumes, and are remarkable for the puritj- of their literai-y 
style as well as for their sagacity and depth of thought. 
Many of his wise sayings ha\'e become provei-bs among 
all English-speaking people. Born in 1706; died in 1790. 

FREXEAU, PHILIP.— An able political humorist of the Revo- 
lutionary period, and a prolific writer of verse. Bom in 
1752; died in 1832. 



898 



BIOGEAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



FULLER, MARGARET (COUNTESS D'OssoLi).— A remark- 
ably gitted woman, noted as a conversationist and writer. 
She was conspicuous among tlie comiiany of brilliant 
personages born in New England at the beginning ot the 
present century. Born in ISIO; died by sliipwreek in 1850. 

GAGE, FRANCES DAXA.— An American poetess, and popu- 
lar public lecturer. Born in Oliio in ISOS. 

GALLAGHER, ■\\aLLIAjM D.— A journalist and poet, author 
of " Miami, and other Poems." Born in Pennsylvania 
in ISOS. 

GARFIELD, JAMES ABRAM.— Twentieth President of the 
United States. A statesman of fine abilities, lofty motives, 
and manly character, whose assassination while Chief 
Magistrate of the nation plunged a wliole people in 
mourning. Born in Ohio in 1831 ; died in 1881. 

GiVRRICK, DAVID.— The most famous actor who has 
adorned the English stage. He was an accomplished 
playwTight and a writer of considerable verse. Born in 
1716; died in 1779. 

GAY, .lOHN. — A poet, contemporary with Swift and Pope, 
and best known as the author of " The Beggar's Opera " 
and the ballad of " Black-Eyed Susan." Born in 1688; died 
in 1732. 

GILBERT, "WILLLVjNI S.— An English dramatist and poet. 
Associated with Arthur Sullivan in the production of 
" Pinafore " and other popular burlesque operas. Born 
in 1S36. 

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON.— A journalist and poet, as- 
sociate editor of " Scribner's Magazine " from its founda- 
tion, and successor to Dr. Holland as editor of the " Cen- 
tury Magazine." Born in New York in 1844. 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.— One of the cherished names in 
English literature. He wrote a vast amount of prose with 
singular grace and simplicity. He produced less poetry, 
but it was imbued with an individual charm. " The Vicar 
of Wakefield" is now his most poiiular prose work, and 
his "Deserted Village" has a higli place among Enghsh 
classics. Born in Ireland in 1728; died in 1774. 

GOODALE, DORA READ.— The younger of two sisters re- 
markable for precocitj'. A volume of their poems was 
published when they were respectively 15 and 12. Born in 
Mass. in 1866. 

GOOD.VXE, ELAINE.— Sister of Dora Read Goodale, and of 
kindred poetical temperament. Born in Mass in 1863. 

GOUGH, .lOHN B.— Widely known as a temperance lecturer 
of rare dramatic power. Born in England in 1S17. 

GILVY, DAVID.— A Scotch poet of humble birth and early 
death. Born in 1838 ; died in 1861. 

GRAY, THOMAS.— An English poet and scholar of renown, 
who produced but little, but that little of a high order of 
excellence. His "Elegy in a Country Churchyard' is an 
example of finislied poetical composition, which has en- 
sured its author immortal fame. Born in 1716 ; died in 1771. 

GREENE, .ALBERT GORTON.— The author of fugitive poems, 

of which "Old Grimes" is the most famous. Born In 

Rhode Island in 1S02 ; died in 186S. 
GRIFFIN, GER.\LD.— An Irish poet and novelist. Born in 

1S03; died in 1840. 
GRISWOLD, IIATTIE TYNG.— A lady of much poetic talent, 

author of a volume of verse entitled " Apple Blossoms." 

Resides in Wisconsin. 

H-VLE, SAR.VH J —An American writer, whose long career 
in literature has been honorable to herself and hor sex. 
For many years editor of " The Lady's Book," and its pre- 
decessor, "The Lady's Magazine." Born in New Hamp- 
shire in 1795. 



HALPINE, CHAKLES GRAHAJVI (Miles O'Reilly).— A well- 
known poet and journalist; a native of Ii-eland and an 
adopted citizen of America. Born in 1829; died in 1869. 

HALLjVM, ARTHUR HENKY.— Son of the eminent historian, 
Arthur Hallam, and a youth of great promise. He was 
the subject of Tennjson's " In Memoriam." Born in Lon- 
don in 1811; died in 1833. 

H.VLLECK, FITZ-GREENE.— Holds an honored place in 
American literature by his few but excellent writings. 
His "Marco Bozzaris" is pronounced the best war lyric 
in the language. Born in Connecticut in 1790; died in 1S67. 

HALiL, EUGENE J. -An American poet, author of several 
popular volumes of verse. Bom in Vermont in 1845. 

HALL, NEA\'^I-VX. — A prominent English divine and tem- 
perance advocate. His "Pilgrim's Songs" have had a 
wide circulation. Born in 1816. 

HANTSTAFORD, E.— Born in England in 1840. A resident for 
many years of Cincinnati, Oliio, but now of St. Louis, Mo. 

ILUIRIS, JOEL CHANDLER.— Author of many popular 
stories and poems of Southern negro charactei-. In 1881 
he published a volume entitled " Uncle Remus," which 
attracted much attention as a study of negro folk-lore. 

HARTE, BRET.— An American author, of original and 
unique talents. In his sketches of pioneer life on the 
Pacific coast, he sti-uck out a new line in fiction, which he 
has worked with marked skill and success. Born in New 
York in 1839. 

HAVEN, GILBERT.— A Bishop in the Methodist Church, and 
a writer of prose and verse. Born in Mass. in 1S21; died 
in 1S83. 

HAVERGAL, FRANCES R.— An English poetess, whose wi-it- 
ings are chiefly of a devotional character. Born in 1837; 
died in 1879. 

H^VWTHORNE, NATHANIEL.— The greatest of American 
novelists. His genius was solitary and melancholy, busy- 
ing itself with the analjsis of the secret motives of human 
action and cliaracter. His literary style was a model of 
pure, copious, felicitous English. Born in Mass. in 1804; 
died in 1864. 

HAY, JOHN. — An American poet and journalist of conspic- 
uous ability. Author of " Pike County Ballads," " Castil- 
ian Days," etc. Born in Indiana in 1839. 

HAYNE, PAUL HAJnLTON.— An American poet and prose 
writer. Born in South Carolina in 1S31. 

HAYNE, ROBERT YOU'NG.— An American statesman of fine 
abilities. Noted for brilliant debate wilh Wcb.ster. Was 
U. S. Senator and Governor of South Carolina. Born in 
South Carolina in 1791 ; died in 1840. 

HEBER, REGIN^VLD (BISHOP).— An English scholar and 
clerg>inan, whose celebrated missionary hynin " From 
Greenland's Icy Mountains" is sung throughout the 
world. He died in the service of missions in India. Born 
in 1783; died in 1826. 

HELPS, ARTHUR.— An able English historian and essayist, 
the esteemed Secretary of Queen Victoria. Emerson said 
of him: "There is nothing which Helps miglit not do." 
Born in ISIS; died in . 

HEM.VXS, FELICIA DIROTHEA.-An Enghsh poetess, uni- 
versally admired during her life. Her maiden name was 
Browne. Born in 1794 ; died in 1835. 

HENTJY, PATRICK.— A distinguished American patriot and 
orator. Born in Virginia in 1736; died in 1799. 

HERP.ERT, GEORGE —An English clergyman and poet of 
devout life and saintly character. Born in 1593; died 
in 1632. 



BIOGKAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



899 



HERRICK, ROBERT.— An English lyric poet of repute dur- 
ing the Cominonwealth and Restoration. His songs are 
replete with sparkling melody. Born in London in 1591 ; 
died in 1674. 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS.— An actor, dramatic poet, and prose 
writer, of the times of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. 
Born in 1570; died in 1649. 

HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH.— A brilliant Amer- 
ican writer, who left the ministry to take part in the civil 
war. Since then has devoted himself to letters. Born in 
Mass. in 1823. 

HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO.— An American writer who 
held a conspicuous place in general literature in the last 
generation. Born in New York in ISOO; died in 

HOGG, JAMES.— A Scotch poet, known as "The Ettrick 
Sliepherd." Born in 1770; died in 18;55. 

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT— An American journalist, 
poet, and novelist. Associate editor of the " Springfield 
Republican" for seventeen years, and editor of " Scrib- 
ner's Monthly " for tlie last ten years of his life. His writ- 
ings have enjoyed a wide popularity, and exerted a whole- 
some moral influence. Born in Mass. in 1819; died in 1881. 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.— An American author, of 
many and distinguished powers; he is at once u physi- 
cian, college professor, poet, and essayist. His contribu- 
tions to American letters have been varied and valuable. 
His prose disputes with his poems for popularity. Born 
in Mass. in 1809. 

HOOD, THOMAS.— A favorite English humorist and poet. 
The most skilled and audacious of jjunsters. His wit was 
always conspicuous, yet under it there ran a current of 
deep pathos. Born in 1798; died in 1845 . 

HOPE, JAMES BARRON.— A native of Virginia, and the 
author of a volume of poems published in 1857. 

HOPKINSON, JOSEPH. —An American poet, whose stirring 
lyric "Hail Columbia" has become a national anthem. 
Born in Pennsylvania in 1770; died in 1842. 

HOWE, JULIA WARD.— A talented American authoress; 
the wife of Samuel G. Howe, the philanthropist. Born in 
New Y'ork in 1819. ' 

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEjVN.— A novelist whose writings 
have won him a distinguished place among American 
men of letters. For several years he was editor of the 
"Atlantic Monthly." Born in Ohio in 1837. 

H0\V1TT, MAHY'.— An English^vriter of kindred tastes and 
pursuits with her husband, William Howitt. The lives and 
labors of the two were so lovingly blended that the his- 
tory recorded of one must include that of the other at 
every step. Born in 1804. 

HOWITT, WILLIAM.— An Englishman of letters, whose lit- 
erary fame is inextricably associated with that of his 
wile, Mary Ilowitt. He was a prolific author, his writings 
embracing prose and verse. Born in 1795 ; died in 1879. 

HOWLAND, MAY W.— Born in 1832 ; died in 1864. 

HOYT, RALPH.— A clergyman of the Episcopal Church in 
New York City, and writer of prose and verse. Born in 
1808; died in 1878. 

HUGHES, JOHN.— An English poet and essayist. Born in 
1677; died in 1720. 

HUNT, I.EIGH.— A prominent man of letters in his period. 
The associate of Coleridge, Lamb, Byron, Shellej', and 
other men of note. His pen was employed with skill in 
various departments of writing. Born in Loudon in 1784; 
died in 18.59. 

INGE LOW, JEAN. — An English poot and novelist, whose 
writings have had a wide cii'culation and high favor. 
Born in 1830. 



INGERSOLL, ROBERT G.— An American, of national repute 
for his oratory. Born in Illinois, in 1832. 

IRVING, WASHINGTON.— An American author peculiarly 
honored and beloved by his countrymen. His gentle and 
genial nature, together with the beauty of his writings and 
the early fame he gave to American literature, cause his 
memory to be fondly cherished. He was a prolific writer 
and his works were received with universal applause. 
Born in New York in 1783; died in 1859. 

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT.— An American author, whoje 
prose and poetical writings are characterized by ardent 
imagination and a facile command of language. It is 
doubtful if as a poetess she has a rival among her 
countrywomen. Has written chiefly over the signature 
" H. H." Born in Mass. in 1831. 

JEFFERSON, THOMAS.— Third President of the United 
States, author of the Declaration of Independence, 
founder of the University of Virginia, and autlior of the 
Virginia statute for establishing religious freedom. Bom 
in Virginia in 1743 ; died in 1826. 

JENNER, DR. EDWARD— An English physician famous as 
the discoverer of the system of inoculation as a prevent- 
ive to small-po.x:. Born in 1749; died in 1823. 

JERROLD, DOUGLAS.— An English author distinguished 
for brilliant wit. Several of his comedies have a perma- 
nent popularity. Born in 1803; died in 1857. 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL. — A renowned English author and 
lexicographer. A man of extraordinary power of mind 
and of eccentric character. He struggled with poverty 
for many years, and with disease all his life, yet by his 
literary achievements and his dictatorial disposition he 
became the intellectual autocrat of his day. Born in 1709; 
died in 1784. 

JONES, AMANDA T.— An American poet and philanthro- 
pist; author of a number of magazine pieces, and of a 
volume of ijoems published in 1867, and "AP'airie Idyl, 
and Other Poems," published in 18S2. Her poetry is the 
work of a deeply reflective spirit, and is marked by great 
sincerity and purity of expi'cssion. 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM.— A famous English scholar and 
jurist. Born in 1746; died in 1794. 

JONSON, BEN.— One of the greatest of the English drama- 
tists, a contemporary of Shakespeare, and, during their 
lifetime, a rival. He produced more than fifty dramas 
and works. Born in 1574; died in 1637. 

KEATS, JOHN.— A poet of great promise, whose life was 
unfortunately brief. His "Endymion" was published 
when he was twenty-two, and the " Eve of St. Agnes " and 
minor poems two years later. Had he reached maturity, 
tliere is reason for believing he would have added anotlier 
to the list of great English poets. Born in 1795 ; died 
in 1821. 

KEBLE, JOHN. — An English clergjanan and poet, whose 
sacred lyrics, tlie expression of a sanctified life, gained 
him the reverent regard of men of all denominations. 
Born in 1792; died in 1S66. 

KEJIBLE, FRANCES ANNE.— Daughter of Charles Kemble, 
the actor, and niece of Mrs. Siddons Distinguished in 
early life for histrionic talent, and, later, as a writer of 
poems, sketches of travel, and personal reminiscences. 
Born in London in 1811. 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT —An American poet, whose one 
memorable song, " The Star-Spangled Banner, " was com- 
posed in 1814, during the bombardment of Fort McIIcury, 
when the author was a prisoner in the hands of the at- 
tacUiug British. Born in Maryland in 1779; died in 1843. 



900 



BIOGKAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



KIMBALL, HLVRRIET M.— An Ameiicau poetess, whose de- 
votional lyrics are characterized by a true poetic quality 
and an artistic finish. Born in New Hampshire in 1S34. 

KINGSLEY, CILUILES.— All eminent Englisli divine, novel- 
ist, and poet. A man of brilliant talents, whose earnest 
work in the church and in behalf of the English j^oor 
give him as honorable a distinction as did his fervent and 
eloquent wTitings. Tlie magnetism of a strange and in- 
tense nature was felt in all he did and wrote. Born in 
1819; died in 1875. 

KINNEY, COATES.— An American poet and miscellaneous 
writer. Born in New York in lS-26. 

KNOWLES, J.UIES SHEHID^VN.— An accomplislied British 
dramatist, actor, and theologian. Among his successful 
plays are " William Tell," "Virginius," "The Hunchback," 
"The Wile," etc. Born in Ireland in 1794 ; died in 1862. 

KNOX, WILLIAM,— A Scotch poet, whose memory is kept 
green by the pensive lyric, " Oh, Wliy Should the Spirit of 
Mortal be Proud?" Borninl7S!l; diedinl825. 

LACOSTE, MARIE R.— A teacher, whose only published 
writing is the touching poem, " Somebody's Darling." 
Born in Georgia in 1842. 

LjVIGHTON, ALBERT.— An American poet, a cousin of Mrs. 
Celia Thaxter. Born in New Hampshire in 1829. 

LAMB, CHjVRLES.- The most popular of English essayists. 
His writings are marked by a delicate, quaint humor which 
is peculiarly captivating. His character was expressed 
by the title, " Gentle Elia." Born in 1775; died in iS34. 

LAMB, 1\L\RY.— Sister of Charles Lamb, and tenderly asso- 
ciated with his life and literary efforts. Born in 1765; died 
in 1847. 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE.— An Englisli poet and miscel- 
laneous writer, whose style was origi^lal, antique, and per- 
fect. His " Imaginary Conversations " form the enduring 
basis of his fame, yet his poems evince power, and some 
of them have enjoyed gi-cat popularity. Born in 1775; 
died in 1864. 

LANIER, SIDNEY.— An American poet and prose "wi-iter, 
wliose life was cut short in the midst of an honored and 
useful career in literature. Besides many poems of merit 
and several volumes for the young, he left a substantial 
treatise upon "The Science of English Verse," and one 
upon "The Development of the English Novel." Born in 
Georgia in 1842; died in 1881. 

LARCOM, LUCY.— An American writer of note. At one time 
a factory operative, afterwards a teacher, and finally 
wholly devoted to literature. Born in Mass. in 1826. 

LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS.— An American journalist 
and poet. At one time assistant editor of the " Atlantic 
Monthly," afterwards editor of the " Boston Courier." 
His wife is a daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Born in 
the Sandwich Islands in 1851. 

LAWRENCE, JONATHAN, .IR.— An American poet. Born 

in New Y'ork in 1807 ; died in 1833. 
LEIGHTON, ROBERT.— A Scotch poet of true inspiration. 

Born in 1822; died in ISfin. 

LELAND, CILVRLES GODFREY. — Author of the "Hans 
Breitman Ballads," and translator of a number of Heine's 
pieces from the German. Born in 1824. 

LEWES, GEORGE HENRY.- The well-known English philo- 
sophical, scientific, and miscellaneous writer, and founder 
of the " Fortnightly Review." The husband of Marian 
Evans, the novelist. His chief works are "The Life of 
Goethe" and " Problems of Life and Mind." Born in 1817; 
died in 1878. 



LINCOLN, ABRAHAM.— Sixteenth President of the United 
States. A man who rose from the humblest origin. En- 
dowed with strong common sense, tender feeling, great 
energy and ambition, keen sense of humor, and pure 
principles. He was one of the most remarkable characters 
America has produced, and is cherished fondly in the 
liearts of his countrymen. Was born in Kentucky in 
1809; assassinated by J. Wilkes Booth in 1S65, shortly after 
he had entered the second term of his administration. 

LINGARD, JOHN.— An English historian of high rank. Born 
in 1771 ; died in 1851. 

LOG.iN, JOHN.— A Scotch divine and poet. Born in 1748; 
died in 1788. 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH.— Tlie most popular 
of American poets. His name is not only dear to his coun- 
trjTBen, but is held in high esteem by all English readers. 
His poems are transparent in thought, tender in senti- 
ment, and perfect in rythm, and are adapted to universal 
favor. Born in Maine in 1807; died in 1882. 

LOVELACE, RICH.VRD.— An English cavalier poet, who 
spent his fortune in the service of the king, and, after 
much suffering, died in extreme poverty. Born in 1618; 
died in 1648. 

LOVER, SiVMUEL. — A humorous Irish poet and novelist. 
Was a successful lecturer, giving entertainments made up 
of songs and stories of Irish life. Born in 1797 ; died in 186S. 

LOWELL, J.UIES RUSSELL.— One of the most eminent of 
A.nerican scholars, poets, and writers. His critical essays 
evince wide reading and fine discrimination, while their 
stylo is rich, elegant, and captivating. His humorous 
poems, chief of which are the " Biglow Papers," are racy 
and witty to a rare degree, and his more serious poetical 
writings are distinguished by varied graces. Born in 1819. 

LUDLOW, FITZ-HUGH.— An American autlior of fine natural 
abilities, who fell an untimely victim to the habit, of 
opium-eating. Born in New York in 1837; died in 1870. 

LUNT, GEORGE —An American poet. Born in Mass. in 1807. 

LYLY, JOHN.— Called the " Euphuist." A dramatist, whose 
affected writings set a pernicious example in English liter- 
ature. Born in 1.5.53; died in 1600» 

LY'TE, HENRY FR.VNCIS.— A Scotch poet and divine. The 
last and finest of his poems was the beautiful hymn, 
" Abide With Me." Born in 1793; died in 1847. 

LYTTON, SIR EDWARD BULWER.— A leading English nov- 
elist, whose works at one time ranked with those of 
Thackeray and Dickens, but have since declined in favor. 
Lord Lytton excelled as a man of letters by dint of am- 
bitious and endless labor, rather than by an inborn crea- 
tive genius. His three dramas, "Richelieu," "Lady of 
Lyons," and "Money," have had great success upon the 
stage. Born in 1805; died in 1873. 

LYTTON, ROBERT BULWER (Owen Meredith).— Only son 
of Lord Lytton. A poet and diplomatist. His most popu- 
lar work is the poem of " Lucille." Was Viceroy of India 
from 1876 to 188 i. Born in 1831. 

BLVCAULAY, THOJLVS B.\BINGTON, LORD.— An eminent 
English historian, essayist, and poet, of remarkable elo- 
quence in conversation and writing. His works have had 
an enoi-mous sale. His "History of England" was read 
with the eagerness of an exciting novel, and his essays 
and poems have had a similar popularity. Born in 1800; 
died in 18.59. 

MacCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE.— An Irish poet. Bom 
in 1810; died in 1882. 

IVLVCDONALD, GEORGE. — A British novelist and poet, 
whose writings are esteemed for their pure teachings. 
Born in 1825. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



901 



ALVCE, FliiiNCES LAUGHTOX.— An American writer, con- 
tributing to leading periodicals. Her hymn, " Only Wait- 
ing," is widely popular. Born in Maine in 1836. 

MACIv^VY, CHLiRLES.— A Scotch poet and journalist. Author 
of many spirited and familiar poems. Born in lSl-2. 

JLVHONY, FR.\:NCIS (Father Prout).— An Irish poet and 
priest, witty, scholarly, and mild. His "Ueliques" is a 
most delightful book. Born in 1804; died in 1S6G. 

ILVXN, HOUACE.— A noted American educationist, whose 
services in behalf of popular education in America 
meiit the nation's gratitude. Born in Mass. in 179K; died 
in 1850. 

M.VI;L0\VE, CHRISTOPHER.— An English dramatist, con- 
temporary with Shakespeare, and born in the same year, 
1564; died in 15'J;!. 

M^\RST0N, JOHN.— An English dramatist, and friend of 
Ben Jonson. Born in 16U0; died in 1634. 

M^VRTIXEAU, HiVRRIET.— An eminent Englisli author, 
whose writings range through the departments of his- 
tory, polities, social economy, and fiction. Her style is 
clear and lively, securing her works a deserved popularitj'. 
Born in ISO'2; died in 1876. 

M:\RVEL, ANDREW.— Distinguished chiefly as a political 
writer, but also a writer of verse. Born in 1G20; died 
in 1678. 

M.\SSEY, GERA1.D.— An English poet, who endured in child- 
liood the hardships and miseries of a factory operative. 
Born in 1828. 

McCREERY, J. Ij.— An anthor whose fame rests upon his 
beautiful poem, " There is no Death." The piece has been 
widely attributed to Bulwer, but is contained in a volume 
of McCreery's poems, published in this country, and is 
undoubtedly his. 

McLEAN, KATE SEYMOUR.— A writer of good poetic gifts, 
but who has published sparingly. A resident of Ontario, 
Canada. 

McALVSTER, GUY HUMPHREY.— An American poet. Born 
iuNew Y'orkin 1829. 

MEEK, ALEXANDER BEAUFORT.— An American lawyer, 
jovirnalist, and poet. Autlior of tlie spirited poem on 
Balaklava. Born in Soutli Carolina in 1814; died in Geor- 
gia in 1865. 

MERRICK, Jj\MES — .\n English clergyman and jioet. Born 
in 1720; died in 176). 

MILLER, JOAQUIN.— An American poet and novelist. His 
youth was passed in the rough pioneer life of the Pacific 
coast. After publishing his first volume of poems, he was 
lionized in English society. Born in Indiana in 1841. 

MILLER, WILLLVM.— A Scotch poet, author of "Willie 
Winkle;" an artist in wood-turning. Born in 1810; died 
in 1872. 

MILNES, RICILVRD MONCKTON (Lord HOUGHTON). — An 
English statesman and autlior. Favorably known by his 
poems and by his amiable personal character. Born 
in 180!). 

MILTON, JOHN.— Next to Shakespeare, the gi'eatest English 
poet. Author of " Paradise Lost," an epic poem ranking 
with Homer's " Iliad " and Dante's " Inferno." Some of 
liis minor poems, as notably the "Allegro" and " Pense- 
roso," are masterpieces of thought and diction. In prose, 
Milton evinced an equal power, his political writings 
exerting a special influence on his times. His character 
partook of tlie stateliness and grandeur of his writings. 
His later years, including the period of the production of 
"Paradise Lost" and " Pai'adise Regained," were passed 
in total blindness. Born in 1608; died in 1674. 



MONTGO.MERY, J.UIES. — A Scotch poet and journalist, 
wlio was twice fined and imiirisoned for offensive political 
writings. His devotional poetry was of a liigli merit, 
many pieces being adopted into the hymnology of all 
Christian denominations. Born in 1771; died in 18.54. 

MOORE, CLEMENT C— An t merican poet and scholar ; son 
of IJishop Moore of the Episcopal Clnirch. His poem, " A 
Visit from St. Nicholas," is universally familiar. Born in 
New York in 1799; died iu 1863. 

MOORE, THOMAS —A famous Irish poet, the friend of 
Byron, and a social favorite. His talent was very preco- 
cious and prolific. He wrote with renuirkable ease, and 
his songs, set to Irish melodies, were sung by liiin with 
much effect. "Lalla Rookh" is his chief work, and was 
one of the most successful and iiecunlarily profitable 
poems ever published. Born in 1779; died in 18.52. 

MORE, ILV^fNAH.— An English writer of great distinction 
in her day. The contemporary of Johnson, Cowper, and 
Scott, and the friend of Garrick. Her writings were of a 
distinctively moral character, and did much to elevate 
the standard of i)urity in England Her works comjirise 
dramas, poems, essays, and tales. Born in 1745; died 
in 1833. 

MORRIS, CHARLES.— A British naval captain, who pub- 
lished many songs, none at all equal to his "Toper's 
Apology." Born in England in 1749; died in 1838. 

MORRIS, GEORGE P.— An American poet. Authorof "Wood 
man. Spare that Tree," "My Mother's Bible," etc. Born 
in Pennsylvania in 1802; died in 1864. 

MORRIS, WILLI^VM — An English poet and artist, prominent 
in the school of the pre-Raphaelites. His " Earthly Para- 
dise " recalls the jioet Chaucer, in the simple naturalness 
of its language and versification. Born in 1834. 

MOSS, THOMAS.— An English clergyman, known only by 
his poem, called "The Beggar." Born in 1740; died 
in 1808. 

MOULTON, LOUISE CIL\NDLER.— A brilliant American 
writer and naturalist. Has contributed largelj' to maga- 
zines, and at one time literary ciiticisms to the New Y'ork 
'Tribune." Born in Connecticut in 1835. 

MUHLENBERG, AVILLIAM AUGUSTUS. — An American 
clergyman and poet, grandson of the founder of the 
Gei'man Lutheran Church in this country. Born in Penn- 
sylvania in 1796; died in 1877. 

MUNBY, ARTHUR J.— An English poet, author of " Doris " 
and other charming pieces. His first volume appeared in 
1865; his "Dorothy," a long elegiac poem, published in 
1882, was less favorably received than his shorter works. 
Born in 1837. 

NAIRNE, L.\DY.— A Scottish poetess of exquisite tenderness, 
as evinced by " The Land o' the Leal," and other beautiful 
poems. Born in 1766; died in 1845. 

NEWTVLVN, JOHN HENRY.— An eminent English scholar 
and theologian. Prominent in the Tractariau movement 
in the Church of England. Afterwards made Cardinal 
in the Roman church. Born in 1801. 

NOEL, THOJLVS.- An English country gentleman, who 
published in 1841 a volume of " Rhymes and Roundelays," 
which included " The Pauper's Drive," the poem by which 
he is chiefly known. 

NORTHRUP, B. G.— \n American clergj-man and poet. 
Born in Conn, in 1817. 

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH.— An English 
poetess; the grand-daughter of Sheridan; of gi-eat ihm- 
soual beauty and brilliant talents. Born in 1808; died 
in 1877. 



902 



BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



O'H-VKA, THEUDOIJE.— A Kentuckiiin, author ot the fa- 
mous iDoeni,"Bi vouac of the Dead," written on the occasion 
of tlie interment, at Franlvfort, Ky., of the soldiers of that 
State who fell at Bueaa Vista. BorninlS20; died in 1S67. 

O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE.— An Irish patriot and poet. Tried 
for sedition and sent to tlie penal colony ol Australia, 
he escaped to America, and became editor of " The Pilot," 
published in Boston. Born in ISU. 

OSBORNE, SELLECK — An American journalist and poet, 
Born in 17S3 ; died in ISiG. 

OSGOOD, FRjVXCES S.— An American poetess. Born in Mass. 
in lSl-2; died in 1850. 

OTIS, NEWTON S.— A resident of Brooklyn, X. Y'. Born 
in 1S36. 

PAGE, EMILY R. — An American writer, who died at the 
early af?e of twentj -two. Her poem of " Tlie Old Canoe " 
was widely credited to Albert Pike. Born in Vermont in 
1S3S; died in I860. 

P^\LFREY, SARAH ILVSDIOND. — An American ^^Titer; 
daughter of the historian, J. G. Palfrej-. 

PALJIER, JOHN WILLIAMSOX.— A physician and poet, 
known principally by his famous piece on " Stonewall 
Jackson's Way." Born in Baltimore about 1828. 

PALMER, WILLLVM PITT. — Author of "The Smack in 
School," etc. Born in Mass. in 1S05. 

PARDOE, JULIA. — An English author, whose numerous vol- 
umes of travel, fiction, and historical memoirs met with 
much favor. Born in 1800; died in 1802. 

PARKER, THEODORE.— A famous American preacher, 
l)oet, and linguist. He is chietJy known as an ardent re- 
former and an eloquent advocate of simple theism in 
religion. Born inJIass. in 1810; died in 1860. 

PATMORE, COVENTRY.— A favorite English poet. Author 
of " The Angel in the House." Born in 1823. 

PAULDING, J^VJUES K. — An American statesman and man 
of letters. A prolific wiiter of prose and verse. Born in 
1778; died in 1860. 

PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. — An American dramati-st and 
actor, chiefly known by the popuUir and exquisitely touch- 
ing jioem, " Home, Sweet Home." Born in New York in 
1792 ; died in 1S52. 

PEABODY, S. H.— An eminent teacher and educator, and 
writer upon scientific subjects. Born in Vermont in 1833. 

PE.VLE, REMBR^VNDT.— An eminent American painter, and 
also an author of note. Born in Penn. in 1778 ; died in 1860. 

PENN, WILLIjUI.— The founder of Pennsylvania, and an 
able exponent of the doctrines of the Society of Fiiends. 
After establishing liis colony in America, he returned to 
Enghrnd in 1684, and took an active ]KUt in political 
affairs, enjoyingthe favor of James II His writings were 
numerous and much esteemed. Born in 1644 ; died in 1718. 

PERCIVAL, J.UIES GATES —An accomplished American 
scholar and poet, of recluse liabits and eccentric char- 
acter. Born in Conn, in 170.5; died in 1856. 

PERRY, NOR.V.— An American poetess; author of the popu 
lar piece, " After the Ball." Born in Rhode Island. 

PHKLPS, EGBERT.— A son of U. S. Senator Phelp.s, of Ver- 
mont.- A teacher, officer in the regular army, and after- 
wards a successful lawyer in Illinois. Born in 1833. 

PHELl'S, ELIZ.VBETH STUART.-An American prose and 
poetical wi-iter, whose works are widely read. " The Gates 
Ajar" established her literary reputation in 186a, and she 
has since produced a number of iiopular novels and con- 
tributed lajgely to the leading magazines. Born in Mass. 
inlS44. 



PIATT, DON.— An American journalist and poet. Born in 
Ohio in 1829. 

PI.\TT, JOHN JAJIES.— An American poet and prose writer. 

Born in Indiana in 1831. 
PIATT, S.VLLIE M. B.— An American poetess, wife of John 

James Piatt. Born in Kentucky in 18:55. 
PIERPONT, JOHN. — An American clei'gyman, prominent in 

the cause of anti -slavery and of temperance reform. Born 

in 1785; died in 1866. 
PIIvE, ALBERT.— For many years a resident of Arkansas, 

and noted there as a brilliant and eloquent lawyer, as 

well as poet and journalist. Born in Mass. in 1800. 

PITT, WILLIA:M.— An English ship-builder, who died at 
Malta in 1840. His amusing poem of " The Sailor's Conso- 
lation " is in many collections credited to Charles Dibdin. 

POE, EDGAR -VLLAN. — An American poet of rare and 
unique genius. The best of his writings have been trans- 
lated into all the European languages. His fame, slight 
during his lifetime, has increased greatly since liis death. 
Of keen sensibility, delicate organization, irregular habits, 
and unhappy fate, the incidents of his life have excited 
the deepest interest, while they have been subjected to 
conflicting interpretations. Born in 1800; died in 1849. 

POLLOK, ROBERT.— An English poet and divine. His prin- 
cipal poem was "The Course of Time." Born in 1799; died 
in 1827. 

POPE, ALEXANDER.— One of the most celebrated of Eng- 
lish poets. His verse was moulded with consummate art, 
and throughout his century was regarded as an expres- 
sion of the loftiest genius. But it was monotonous in its 
polished construction, was wanting in the passion wliich 
speaks from heart to heart, and has suffered an inevitable 
decline in favor. Born in 1688; died in 1744. 

PORTER, NOAH.— .in American scholar and author, elev- 
entli President of Yale College. Born in Comi. in 1811. 

POWERS, HORATIO NELSON.— An American clergyman of 
the Episcojial Church, and an accomplished iioet and man 
of letters. Was an intimate friend of the poet Bryant, 
and author of an excellent memoir of him. Pastor of a 
church in Bridgeport, Conn. Born in New York in 1826. 

PRENTICE, GEORGE D— An American journalist and poet 
of great rejiute in his day. Editor of the Louisville 
" Journal." Born in Connecticut in 1802; died in 1870. 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE.— An English poetess, the 
daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). Her 
poems are tender, serious, and imbued with a delicate 
fancy. Born in 1825; died in 1864. 

IMiOCTER, BRYAN W..VLLER (Bakrt Cornwall). — An 
English poet and barnster-at-law. Many of his songs 
are popular favorites. Born in 1790; died in 1874. 

PROCTOR, EDNA DE.VN.— An American poetess and miscel- 
laneous \\'riter. Born in New Hampshire. 

PUNSHON, WILLI.VM MOKLEV.— A popular English 
preacher of the Wesleyan denomination. Born in 1824. 

QUARLES, FRANCIS.— A quaint English poet. His "Em- 
blems " are very widely known. Born in 1.592 ; died in 1644. 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER.— A famous English discoverer, 
sailor, soldier, and courtier. Tliere are forty short poems 
attributed with tolerable certainty to him, but his prose 
writings contain the best evidence of bis genius. Born 
in 1552, beheaded by James I. in 1618. 

RAND.VLL, JAMES R. — .\n American poet and journalist; 
author of " My Maryland," one of the most stirring lyrics 
of the American civil war. Born in Marvland in 1839. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



903 



HEAD, THOJLVS IJUCHANjVJS'.— Au American iiainter and 
poet, excelling in lyrics, of wlucli one, " Sheridan's Hide," 
had sufficed to give him national lame. Born in Penn- 
sylvania in 1822; died in 1872. 

KEALF, KICIIAKD.— A gifted but unfortunate poet, who 
emigrated from England to America at tlu; age of twenty, 
and was associated with Jolni lirown in the political 
strife la Kansas, liorn in 18:54; died in 1878. 

KEDDEN, LAUUA C. (Howakd Glyndon).— An American 
poetess. Born in Maryland about 1840. 

RICH, HIRAM. —An American poet and magazine con- 
tributor. Born in Mass, in 1832. 

KICHARUS, WlLLIiVJM C— A poet of English birth, resident 
in America since youth. A clergyman, journalist, and 
popular lecturer on chemistry. Born in 1817. 

ROBERTSON, FREDERICK AV.— A distinguished English 
clergyman, whose sermons and lectures have made him 
widely known. Born in 1816; died in 1853. 

ROBERTSON, WILLIAM. —An eminent Scotch historian, 
whose works rank with those of Hume and Gibbon. Born 
in 1721 ; died in 1793. 

ROGERS, SAjNIUEL.— An English poet and banker, distin 
guishedin the literary and social life of London. His 
chief poems are " The Pleasures of Memory" and " Italy." 
Born in 1763; died in 1855. 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. — An English poet, sister of 
Daiite Gabriel Rossetti. 

ROSSETTI, DiVNTE GABRIEL. — An Englisli painter and 
poet, one of the originators of tlie Pre-Raphaelite scliool 
of painting. Born in 1828; died in 1882. 

RUSKIN, JOHN.— The gi'eat English art critic and writer. 
His works have had a profound influence on the age, 
exciting admiration by their impassioned eloquence and 
elevating the standard of morals by their lofty teachings. 
There is nothing in the lorose literature of our language 
equalling in magnificence and splendor some of his de- 
scriptions of nature, and nothing more impressive than 
some of his terse declarations of the duty of men. Born 
in 1819. 

RUSSELL, WILLIAM H.— A distinguished English news- 
paper correspondent, famili.irly known as " Bull Run 
Russell," from his report of tlie battle of that name in 
18'!l. Born in Ireland in 1821. 

RYAN, ABRAM T. (Father Ryan).— A Catliolic clergyman 
of Alabama, who has published a volume of verse, nmch 
of it of excellent quality. 

RYAN, RICHARD.— A Scotch poet. Born in 1796; died in 
1849. 

SANGSTER, MARGARET E. M.— An American poet. Born 
in 1858. 

SARGENT, EPES.— An American poet and .iournalist. Edited 
aseriesof scliool-books— speakers, readers, and spellers, 
which have been extensively used. Born in 1812; died 
in 1880. 

SAXE, JOHN GODFREY.— One of the most popular of the 
humorous poets of America. Born in Vermont in 1816. 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER.— A Scotch poet and novelist, a man 
of wonderful, vigorous, and fecund genius, whose works 
enjoyed an immense popularity in tlieirday, securing liim 
a splendid reward in wealtli and fame. His leputation 
was founded on his poems and crowned by the series of 
Waverly novels. Born in 1771 ; died in 1832. 



SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.— A name which stands above 
all others in the literature of England or of the world. 
His works are an inexliaustible treasury of great thoughts 
delivered with marvelous expression. They comprise 
thirty-seven plays, the poems of "Venus and Adonis," 
and "Tarquin and Lucrece," and 134 sonnets. Born in 
1564; died in 1616. 

SHANLEV, CHARLES DAWSON.— Author of the famous 
poem, " Civil War," which appeared originally in London 
" Once a Week." Born in 1830; died in 1876. 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE.— A great English poet, whose 
genius was underestimated during his lifetime on account 
of the liberal social and religious views which he jjio- 
claimed. His successive writings show a continual devel- 
opment of his powers, but his life was cut short before 
they were matured. Born in 1792 ; died in 1822. 

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM.— An English pastoral poet and 
miscellaneous writer. Born in 1714 ; died in 1763. 

SHILLABER, B. P. (ilKS. Pautincton).— A popular Ameri- 
can humorist. By profession a journalist, his humorous 
sketches and sayings originally appeared in the news- 
paper press, and afterwards liad an immense sale m book 
form. Born in 1814. 

SHIRLEY, JAMES.— A celebrated writer of tragedies, com- 
edies, and poems. Born in England in 1.196; died in 1666. 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP.— A courtly knight adorning Queen 
Elizabeth's reign. His bright talents were overshadowed 
by his manly and lovely personal traits. Honored and 
admired universally, he trod fioiu his cradle to his grave 
amid incense and flowers. Born in 1.5.54 ; died in 15S6. 

SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE.— An American poet and nov- 
elist, whose writings embrace a list of sixty volumes. 
Born ill South Carolina in 1806; died in 1870. 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE.— An English poetess, whose life was 
full of hardsliip and sorrow, the result of an unhappy, 
marriage. Born in 1749; died in 1808. 

SMITH, HORACE.— A celebrated English wit and writer, 
associated with his brother James in the production of 
"Tlie Rejected Addresses." Born in 1779; died in 1849. 

SMITH, MAY RILEY. — An American poet and miscellaneous 
writer. Born in New York in 1S42. 

SMITH, SEBA.— An American journalist, poet, and prose 
writer, displaying a rich vein of humor in some of his 
works. Born in JNIaine in 1792 ; died in 1868. 

SMITH, SYDXEY.— A political writer, humorist, critic, and 
]ncaclier, of extraordinary talents. Born in England in 
1771 ; died in 1845. 

SMOLLETT, TOBIAS G.— A popular Englisli novelist, the 
author of a few short poems of much merit. Born in 1721 ; 
died in 1771. 

SOMERVILLE, WILLLVM.— An English poet. Born in 1677; 
died in 1742. 

SOULE, JOHN B. L.— A clergyman of the Presbyterian de- 
nomination; ])rominently connected with educational 
interests in Illinois. Author of a volume of poems, pub- 
lished in 1882. 

SOUTHEY, CAROLINE A. B.— An English poetess, the second 
wife of the jioet Southey. Born in 1787; died in 1854. 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT.— One of the English Lake Poets, asso- 
ciated with Wordsworth and Coleridge, and a poet lau- 
reate. He was an able and laborious writer, and his 
works were voluminous and covered a wide range of 
topics. Born in 1774; died in 1843. 

SPENCER, AVILLIAM ROBERT. — An English poet, who 
wrote chiefly " .societj' verses." Born in 1770; died in 1834. 



904 



BIOGEAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



SPEXSER, EDMUXD.— One of the foremost of EngUind'3 
poets, liis name following next alter Chaucer's. His writ- 
ings helped to make the Elizabetliun era illustrious, and 
the chief of them, " The Fairy Queen," forms one of the 
treasures of our language. Born in l.i53; died in 1599. 

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT.— An American poet and 
prose writer. Has contributed largely to the magazines, 
and published several volumes. Born in Maine in 1S35. 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES. — An American, known as "the 
banker-poet," his long life having been almost entirely 
devoted to commercial pursuits. Born in Mass. in 1791; 
died in 1876. 

STEDMAX, EDMUXD CLAREXCE.— One of the foremost 
members of the "younger school" of American men of 
letters, of the period when Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow, 
and Whittier represented the older school. He is dis- 
tinguished alike as a poet and a cr;tie. His poetiy is marked 
by delicate fancy, purity of conception, and refined and 
artistic expression; his critical writings, by clear insight, 
fine judgment, judicial spirit, and warm literary sympa- 
thies. Author of a number of volumes in prose and 
verse, and a frequent contributor to the magazines. Born 
in Conn, in 1S:33. 

STEPHEX, JAMES.— An English barrister and author. A 
friend of Wilberforce, and sharer of his religious and 
anti-slavery principles. Born in 1759 ; died in 18:32. 

STILL, JOHX.— An English divine, Bishop of Bath and 
Wells. Author of one of the earliest comedies in the lan- 
guage, "Gammer Gurton's Xeedle." Bora about 1543; 
died in 1608. 

STODDARD, CHARLES WARREX.— An American journalist 
and ti'aveler; for many years connected with the press 
of San Francisco. A small coUectiini of his poems, printed 
in his j-outh, atti-acted the attention of Emerson and 
others; but he soon ceased to write verse. His prose, 
howevei-, is peculiarly rich and brilliant. 

STODDARD, RICHARD HEXRY.-An American poet, critic, 
and journalist. Most of his life has been spent in New 
York City, devoted to continuous and arduous literary 
labors. His first volume was published in 1842, and in 1880 
appeared a complete edition of his poems, forming a large 
volume. Between these periods, a number of his works, 
in prose and verse, were published. He has contributed 
largely to the Biagazines, and held the post of literai-y 
critic upon several leading New York journals. Born in 
Massachusetts in 1825. 

STORY, JOSEPH.— A celebrated American judge and law- 
writer ; aiithor of "Commentaries ou ttie Conflict of Laws." 
Born in 1770; died in 1845. 

STORY, WILLIAM W— An American poet and sculptor of a 
high order of talent. Son of Judge Joseph Story. Born 
in Mass. in 1819. 

STOWE, H.VRRIET BEECHER.-An American novelist of 
world-wide popularity. A daughter of Dr. Lyman 
Beccher, and sister of Henry Waid Beeeher. Her story of 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" has been translated into more lan- 
giuigesand soldmoie largely than any other novel ever 
written. Born in Connecticut in 1812. 

STREET, ALFRED B.— An American poet. Bom in Xew 
York in 1811 ; died in 1881. 

SUCICLIXG, SIR JOHX.— An English poet and courtier, cele- 
brated in the times of Charles I. Born in 1G09; died in 1641. 

SWAIX, CHARLES.— An English poet and engraver. His 
songs have liad a considerable popularity. Born in IS 3; 
died in 1874. 



S^^^XB^RXE, ALGERXOX CHAELES.— Onc of the first Eng- 
lish poets of Victoria's reign. Distinguished for a mar- 
velous command of metrical forms. Born in 1837. 

SWIXG, DAVID. — An eminent American clergyman, pastor 
of a large independent church in Chicago; and popular 
as lecturer and essayist not less than preacher. Born in 
18.52. 

SYMOXDS, JOHX ADDIXGTOX.— An English writer of na- 
tive talent and scholarly culture. His " Studies of the 
Greek Poetry, in Two Series," appeared in 1876, and his 
great work on " The Italian Renaissance" a few years 
later. 

TAN'XAHILL, ROBERT.— A Scotch poet. By trade aweaver; 
he published a volume of lyrics at the age of sixtj-three, 
which attained immediate popularity. Born in 1744; died 
in 1810. 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. — A distinguished American poet, nov- 
elist, journalist, and traveler, whose works have obtained 
deserved popularity. Born in Pennsylvania in 1825; died 
at Berlin, where he had been appointed American Minis- 
ter, in 1878. 

TAYLOR, BEXJ.\3IIX F.— A brilliant American journalist, 
poet, and prose writer. Author of several successful vol- 
umes, in prose and verse. Born in New York in 1822. 

TAYLOR, J.;VXE. — An English poetess, who singly and with 
her sister published several volumes of i)oems. Her 
child's song, "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," is chanted 
in every nursery. Born in 178:3; died in 1824. 

TAYLOR, TOM.— A prolific English author and dramatist. 
Has produced over a hundred plays, many of which are 
popular on the stage. Was at one time editor of the fa- 
mous "Punch." Born in 1817. 

TEX^YSOX, ALFRED.-One of the greatest English poets of 
the present century, and the poet laureate since the death 
of Wordsworth in 1850. His poetry evinces a high order 
of genius united with a capacity for the most patient 
labor. In it thought and words ai'e exquisitely adjusted 
to each other, producing almost the perfection of poetic 
form. Born in 1809. 

THACKERAY, A\aLLIA3I JIAKEPEACE.— A great English 
novelist, the contemporary of Dickens. " Vanity Fair" is 
commonly accepted as his nuisterpiece. He was gifted in 
the use of the pencil as well as the pen, and illustrated 
some of liis own works with designs of much originalitj' 
and humor. He excelled also as a poet, some of liis 
pieces showing genuine power and feeling. Born in Cal- 
cutta in 1811; died in 1863. 

THAXTER, CELIA.— An American writer, who has spent 
many j-ears of her lifeupon /■ ppledore Island, on the co;ist 
of Maine. Her poems and prose writings are remarkable 
for their reproduction of the color, the odor, the sound 
and the action of the sea, and of the features of natui-e 
with which she was surrounded on her island home. Born 
in Xew Hampshire in 18:55. 

THOMSOX, J.\JIES.— An English poet of distinction, whose 
writings aljoimd with beautiful descriptive passages 
which give them permanent fame. His chief poems were 
those written upon the Seasons, and " The Castle of Indo- 
lence." Born in 1700; died in 1748. 

THOMPSOX, ED. PORTER.— Born in Kentucky in 1834. A 
contributor to periodical literature of prose and poeti-y. 
Author of a "History of the First Kentucky Brigade of 
Infantiy,C. S. Army;" co-author of "The Academic Arith- 
metic." X'ow a resident of Arkansas. 

THOMPSOX, JAMES MALTIICE.— A poet and ma.gazinist, 
resident in Indiana. Widely known through his writings 
on the subject of archery. Born in 1844. 



BIOGEAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 



905 



THOMPSOX, JOIIX E,.— An Amerieiui poet and journalist 
of marked talents. Born in Virginia in 1S23; died in 1S72. 

THOREAU, HEXRY D.— An American iioet, and a naturalist 
ot original and independent mind and solitary habits. 
He devoted himself to observation and rejection rather 
tlian to wiiting, yet his prose and poetry betray the pro- 
found seer and thinker. Born in Mass. in 1817; died 
in 1SG2. 

TILTON, THEODORE.— An American poet, journalist, and 
miscellaneous writer, of versatile and brilliant talents. 
Born in New York in 1835. 

TIMROD, HENRY.— An American poet, of considerable 
gifts. Born in South Carolina in 1829; died in 18U7. 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND.— An American poet and 
miscellaneous writer. A number of his poems and juve- 
nile stories have attained great popularity. Born in New 
York in 1827. 

TUClvER, ST. GEORGE.— An American jurist, whose fame 
as a poet rests on the single poem, "Days of My Y'outh." 
Born in 1752 ; died in 1827. 

VAUGlij\N', HENRY.— A well-known Welsh poet and devo- 
tional writer. Born in 1621; died in 1695. 

VERY, JONES.— An American poet, whose merits were re- 
cognized by Emerson and a few acute critics, but whose 
poetry has been slow in gaining the public appreciation 
that it deserves. A volume of his poems was published 
in 1883. Born in Mass. in 1813; died in 1880. 

WAKEFIELD, NANCY PRIEST.— An American poetess. 
Her poem of " Over the River," which appeared originally 
in the Springfield (Mass.) "Republican," has been remark- 
ably iiopular. Born in Mass. in 1837 ; died in 1870. 

WALLER, EDMUND.— An English poet of gi-eat popularity 
in liis time, but now nearly forgotten. Born in 1605; died 
in 1(587. 

WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS.— An Irish journalist and bar- 
rister. Born in 1810. 

WALTON, IZAAK.— An English author of contemplative 
mind and gentle character. His " ComiJlete Angler" 
holds a place among English classics. Born in 1593 ; died 
in 1683. 

WASHINGTON, GEORGE.— The first President of the United 
States. Honored by the title of " The Father of his 
Countiy." His abilities as a statesman and a military 
leader, and his virtues as a man, have gained him a high 
place among the great men ot the Saxon race. Born in 
Virginia in 1732; died in 1799. 

WATTS, ISAAC— A celebrated English poet and independ- 
ent minister. The author of the first regular hymn-book 
used in public worship in England. For many years it 
superseded any other collection of sacred songs among 
tlie Dissenters in England and the Calvinists in America. 
Watt's hymns numbered about 800. Born in 1674; died 
in 1748. 

WEBSTER, DANIEL.— One of the greatest of American 
statesmen and orators. A man of immense brain-power, 
with far-reaching grasp of comprehension, intense 
energj' and feeling, and a power of language adequate to 
the quick and eloquent expression of all his conceptions. 
He was the master-spirit in legislative debate during his 
lifetime. Born in Mass. in 1782 ; died in 1852. 

WEBSTER, JOHN.— A contemporary of Shakespeare, and 
one of the best Oi the minor dramatists of the Eliza- 
bethan era. Born about 1570; died in 1640. 

WEIR, HARlilSON WILLI.Vil.— An English poet, artist, and 
naturalist, noted for his wood engravings of animals. 
The successful author of numerous juvenile works written 
and illustrated by himself. Born in 1824. 



WHEELER, ELLA.— An American poetess, a resident of 
Wisconsin, who lias contributed largely to the news- 
liapers, and is the author of one or two volumes of verse. 

WHITE, HENRY KIRKE — An English poet of promise, 
whose life was prematurely cut short by excessive study. 
Born in 1785; died in 1806. 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO.— An Irish poet and prose writer. 
His "Night and Death" is I'egarded as one of tlu; most 
jierfect sonnets in the English language. Born in 1775; 
died in 1841. 

WIHTMjVN, WALT. — \ n American poet of eccentric genius. 
England has been more ready to acknowledge his talent 
than his own country, but its strange expression, defying 
the acknowledged laws of poetry, has made it difficult to 
pronounce upon its order or degree. Born on Long Island 
in 1819. 

AVHITNEY, ADELAIDE D. T.— An American poet and nov- 
elist, whose writings have enjoyed much popularity. Born 
in Mass. in 1824. 

WHITTIER, ELIZ.VBETH IL— An American poetess, sister 
of the iioet, John G. Whittier, and his companion until 
her death. Born in Mass. in 1815; died in 18ij4. 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF —A distinguished Ameri- 
can poet, whose writings breathe the purest spirituality, 
patriotism, and humanity. There is no poet of the time 
who dwells nearer the hearts of the people. His name is 
beloved and venerated. Born in 1807. 

WILDE, LADY (Speranza).— An Irish poet, whose writings 
have generally a political bearing. Mother of Oscar 
Wilde. Born about 1830. 

WILDE, OSCAR.— An Irish poet of vei-y decided talents; his 
personal affectations have subjected him to much public 
ridicule, and jirevented the recognition due his poetry. 
Born in Dublin in 1855. 

WILDE, RICHARD HENTIY.- An Irish poet, resident most 
of his life in the United States. Was for twenty years a 
Member of Congress from Georgia. Born in 1789; died 
in 1847. 

WILLIAJMS, MARIE B.— An American prose and poetical 
writer of decided gifts and sincere devotion to literature. 
Born in Louisiana in 1826. 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER.— A distinguished Amer- 
ican journalist and poet. His writings were witty, grace- 
ful, and graphic. He allowed a social ambition to hinder 
the noblest use of talents of no common order. Born in 
Maine in 1807; died in 1867. 

WILLMOTT, AVIS.— An English author, chiefly of devotional 
pieces. Died in 1863. 

WILLSON, FORCEYTHE.— An American poet of marked 
originality, whose brilliant promise was cut short by his 
early death. His famous poem of "The Old Sergeant" 
first appeared as the Carrier's Address of the Louisville 
" Courier- Journal," in 1863. Born in New Y'ork in 1837; 
died in 1867. 

WILSON, JOHN (Christopher North).— A Scotch poet and 
prose writer of splendid abilities. Nature endowed liim 
prodigally with physical and mental gifts. Editor of the 
famous " Blackwood's Magazine," of Edinburgh. Bom 
in 1788; died in 1854. 

WINTER, WILLIAM.— For many years the musical and 
dramatic critic of the New York " Tribune," and a pleas- 
ing and accomplished verse-writer. Born in Mass. in 1836. 

WINTHROP, ROBERT C— An esteemed American states- 
man and author, Daniel Webster's successor in the U. S. 
Senate. Born in Mass. in 1809. 

WIRT, WILLIAM. — An eloquent American lawyer and 
writer. Born in Maryland in 1772; died in 1834. 



906 



BIOGKAPHIES OF AUTHOES. 



WOLCOTT, JOHN.— An English poet, authorof many popu- 
lar humorous pieces, written chiefly over the signature of 
" Peter Pindar. Born in 1738; died in 1819. 

WOLFE, CHjVRLES.— An Irish divine and poet. His poem, 
" The Burial of Sir John Moore," was pronounced by Lord 
Byron " the most perfect ode in the language." Born in 
1791; died in 1823. 

WOODWORTH, SASrUEL.— An American poet, remembered 
by a single vigorous IjTic, " The Old Oaken Bucket." Born 
in Mass. in 1785 ; died in 1S12. 

WOOLSEY, SARAH (Susan Coolidge).— A popular Ameri- 
can poet and prose writer. A niece of President Woolsey, 
of Yale College. 



WOOLSOX, COXSTA>XE FEXIMORE.— An American wri- 
ter, wlio lias gained a considerable celebrity, both by her 
prose and verse. 

WORDSWORTH, "WILLLSJVI.— A great English poet, whose 
works grew verj' slowly into favor, but finally have come 
to be esteemed among the most precious literary legacies 
bequeathed to the nineteenth century. AVordsworth is 
pre-eminently the poet of the reflective imagination. AVas 
poet laureate of England, succeeding Southey. Born in 
1770; died in 1850. 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY.— An English poet and diplomatist. 
Born in 1568; died in 1639. 

YOUNG, EDWARD.— An English poet, most exclusively 
known by his poem, "Niglit Thoughts," which had a great 
popularity in his time. Born in 1684; died in 1765. 



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